A Match Made in Persia
by Banana71588
Summary: She was an odalisque, fated to slavery in the royal harem, abandoned by her father. And he was a genius who wore a mask, a man shunned by humanity for his death’s face. But for one night she is given as a gift…for one night only…or so they thought…
1. Chapter One: The First Night

**PLEASE READ! Okay, so I'm finally reposting the story! I've basically finished with all the editing; there's still a few more chapters to do. Most the chapters were altered almost completely (this one not QUITE as much as the others; and towards the end of the previously posted chapters, there's less editing). Please be sure to read it all, because A LOT has really changed. Thanks! And I'm so sorry for the delay.**

**And I need a new beta; if anyone is interested, let me know, thanks!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any aspect of The Phantom of the Opera, be it by Leroux, Kay, or Webber (though all three aspects are found in this story). Sadly enough, I don't even own my main character, Ria, who is the slave girl from Kay's book (though I completely invented the type of character she is thank you very much). **

**A/N: This story is based a great deal off of Susan Kay's Phantom, but of course, there's much Leroux and ALW fun involved. Yes, it's an E/OW. My take on what would have happened if, when the Shah gave Erik the slave girl in Persia, she said yes instead of no.**

**Something you guys should know, so you don't wonder where my head is at, Erik is younger in this story. Even though he's still in his early 20's during the Persia bit (as it was in Kay), the amount of time that passes between Persia and a year after the Opera Garnier events is only six years. I desperately wanted to keep a certain other character very, VERY young (you'll see who and why).**

**Now, without further ado, I give you…**

A Match Made in Persia

Chapter One: The First Night

_Please don't let it hurt… _

It was the only thing I could think…a mantra that echoed in my mind with such childish continuity, growing and grasping more desperately towards those shreds of sanity that slipped further and further from my mind with each step we took towards that door…the door that was sure to lead me straight to hell.

What more could I expect but hell and pain when I was being given to a murder? A _monster_. He was sure to take my innocence without so much as a shred of guilt, and he was sure to make my ordeal a painful one.

The very thought sent bouts of fearful shivers down my spine.

This shivering, this traitorous testament to the fear and degradation that I felt, continued as we neared the door, and for a moment I failed to decide if this walk to monstrosity was taking centuries too long, or taking but mere seconds of what little time I so bitterly had left to myself. But then, time wasn't truly my concern right then. Time was only a bystander to my plight; simply there to tick past the moments of raging emotions, the anger and fright that filled my mind with each second that trickled by. These emotions consumed me so utterly; left me bitter and unable to think of anything else but the injustice of it all.

Until the door opened.

I wanted very much to close my eyes and just look away, imagine that I was somewhere else, _anywhere else_, besides this room. But my eyes refused to move away from the man I saw. The monster that was now my master.

I had seen him once before at the harem; he'd been leaving the khanum's private chambers with a frown upon his lips and his black robes snapping with each crisp stride he took. His eyes had passed over me with distracted indifference as he brushed by my rather short figure, throwing not so much as a glance in my direction. After he'd left I had lingered behind, staring after his rapidly retreating figure, and I remember thinking to myself that I would be fortunate indeed if I never came across him again.

How ironic.

The only thing I'd really been able to see of him at the time was his half-mask; a black one that stretched across his forehead and covered his right cheek, extending down to his chin as it slimed into a dull point, and covering his entire nose. The left side of his face was bare.

Now that I stood so near him I could see the uncovered side more clearly, and despite myself, my breath caught. His visible brow was dark and arched gracefully in a permanent expression of mockery, and the rest of his face was defined with high cheekbones and a slightly pointed jaw. Next to the black mask his skin looked starkly pale, making his thin lips appear darker than I knew they really were. And on the side of that uncovered face, a small, oddly shaped scar stretched across his temple, hardly even an inch long.

After all the tales I'd heard of his deformity, I'd expected him to be rather…well, ugly. And while he wasn't handsome, not exactly, in truth he had a certain attractiveness to him; a striking uniqueness; a dark, elegant beauty. If not for the gauntness of his cheeks and that ever-forbidding expression, if not for the abruptness of his mask, he might have been called a decent looking man.

The man I was studying so shamelessly was at the moment sitting at a desk, hand leaping across a page as he wrote with quick dexterity, wearing thick black robes that enshrouded his entire frame; and a very thin frame it was at that. His hair, as raven dark as my own, looked mussed and fell over his brow, charming despite its disarray. His face lifted only slightly to glare upon the intruders that had disrupted his private time with an expression that looked grim and lips that frowned their displeasure, the quill in his hand never pausing; but at the sight of our entourage he froze. The quill fell from his suddenly limp fingers, clanking quietly against his desk.

I glimpsed from beneath my lashes his gaze on the daroga who stood next to me, just before his eyes landed on my trembling figure, burning with such incessant fire into my form as his narrow shoulders hunched over. But I quickly averted my gaze from his face, not daring to look into my master's eyes.

Instead my eyes dropped to his hands beneath the desk, and I watched transfixed as his long fingers clawed into his knees. Allah, they were so pale! I could see each delicate vein in his hands, see the long strength of his fingers as they started to twist into his robes; they churned the silken material with such desperation, dragging the fabric along his skin and clenching it tight into his stomach, as if to just contain himself; And I could feel the burn of his eyes as they glared upon my figure, as if devouring me from sight alone.

For a moment, just one brief, unafraid moment, I could imagine what it would feel like to have those pale hands upon my skin, with fingers so long they could stretch across the extent of my neck. But at the thought of those hands set upon such a vulnerable place, the moment died, and all of my inhibitions came crashing back down upon myself. This man was a murderer! He _could_ quite easily stretch those hands across my neck…right before he choked the life from my body once he finished with me.

With that thought preying on my mind I stared down at my toes, clenching and unclenching my hands. As the seconds dragged by I vaguely heard the daroga stuttering over his speech, and I burned with shame as he told the man in front of me, Erik, what he was to do with me. Tears filled my eyes as the word slave fell upon my ears, reminding me of my inability to protect myself…my inability to be _free_. I was spoken of as if I was not there…as if I was not even a person!

I tried to remember the courage I promised myself I would always keep, I really tried, and with painstaking effort I blinked back the tears burning on the brims of my eyelids. I would not cry. I wouldn't!

My attention was drawn back up to my masked master as he rose from his seat, his stature tall and imposing as he inadvertently stepped around his desk and in front of the lamp that sat upon it, causing the room to dim and an ethereal glow to surrounded his frame. His robes fluttered momentarily as he stood, and then stilled as they settled back over his booted feet.

And then quite unwittingly, in a brainless moment of uncertainty, my eyes traveled to his; and everything seemed to stop as I stared into those unfathomable depths; I hardly even dared to breathe! A gaze of pure gold stared back at me; like hopeless little pools of shimmering, most brightest amber, glowing through the darkness that so clouded him, a gaze more intense then the sun itself, turning the force of it's power and passion upon myself. Not even the most beautiful thing in the world could compare to that look of gold, for those eyes were pure beauty themselves. And oh, how full of anguish and sadness they were.

But they too were filled with incomparable desire.

And how I loathed the thought of lust.

Involuntarily I shrank against the eunuch, trying to hold back the whimper that pushed past my tightly clamped lips. My master flinched at the sound; his hand rose to touch his mask in an agonized gesture, but only for a brief moment before the hand slipped back down, and those indescribably long fingers slid themselves up into the cover of his sleeves. His eyes glowered at the daroga.

"Bring her forward."

I trembled at the sound of his voice. It sounded raw from the desire he fought so hard to suppress. Dissonant and cruel. He nodded brusquely to the eunuch and I was forced across the room; shoved to my knees before him. I stared at his feet determinedly, refusing to look up. Allah save me, I could not look into those eyes again.

Thin fingers curled around my veiled chin, and as much as I tried to resist he forced my gaze up. I bit my lip nervously as he bent forward towards me, his other hand rising to strip away my veil. When I tried to pull away from him, wishing desperately to keep my face hidden, his grip tightened. And so I could only watch his narrowed eyes as he pulled the veil away.

His hand fisted the material tightly as he stared at me, and his amber eyes roved over every feature of my face so intensely it was as if he was committing each detail to memory. The veil fluttered lightly to the ground as he brought his hand up again.

Instead of touching me however, he traced the air over my cheek with one finger, his hand so close I could almost feel its movement. My breath caught, my eyes I followed the movement of his hand closely, mesmerized by its grace and yet terrified that it would breach the gap and touch my face.

And then, even through all my fear and disgust, my eyes slid shut and my lips parted in shameful submission at the release of a trembling little sigh. One of his shaking fingers lay upon my bottom lip, and with the softest glide they trailed across the pouting flesh, like a stroke of the purest silk across my lip, sending a spark straight down my spine and to my toes. It felt cold…and so-

"What age are you?" he asked severely as his hand fell from my face. My eyes snapped open and I dropped my gaze back down to his feet, ashamed of myself for reacting to his touch in such a manner.

"Fifteen, master," I whispered with a voice gone so quiet that I doubted he heard me. But as I peered up at him from beneath my lashes, I saw him nod curtly.

"And you know what you are here for?"

The images his question conjured in my mind set a nauseated churn to flip through my stomach. My fingers clenched tightly as I muttered my assent.

"Very well. I have seen your face, my dear," the corners of my lips turned down at the endearment. "You may remove my mask." His words sounded brisk and cold as he watched my reaction intently, but I could not have forced my hands to move even if I wanted them to. I shook my head forcefully, remaining silent.

"To refuse me is to refuse the Shah himself. You will be killed," He said simply, and his words were met with a shudder that ran through me.

_Allah, I do not want to die. But…I do not want to do this either. _

Confusion and uncertainty was spreading like wildfire through my mind. What he said was true; I would be killed if I did not acquiesce. But the thought of giving myself to him sickened me so greatly that I was starting to feel vaguely faint.

"Come to me willingly for this one night and I swear to you that you shall go free at dawn. You have my word," chills spread over my body as his voice turned to a low whisper, soft and alluring, like the delicate hint of a purr. I hadn't realized, until then, what a beautiful voice he had; a voice that could have charmed the angels themselves. "And perhaps, after all, the night will not be so terrible as you fear…"

As his words trailed away he bent forward, extending his hand in an eloquent gesture of acquiescence. I stared at the outstretched fingers hesitantly, even as my own shaking hand rose to meet his. I paused for a moment, my eyes unwittingly rising to his. The imploring look I saw in those amber depths made the last vestiges of my resolve crumble, and I finally placed my hand in his. My eyelids lowered as his fingers curled around my hand, and my legs obeyed, albeit shakily, as he gently pulled me to my feet.

A rapid pounding took place in my heart as he only continued to stare at me, his eyes focused on my eyes, his hand still wrapped around my hand. Without looking away, he told the daroga to leave us, and my legs quaked when I heard the door click shut, sealing my fate to this man…but still I could not force my eyes away from his.

His hand released mine and hovered above my neck, still not touching me, keeping just the barest distance that he could not seem to surpass despite how badly he might want to. And suddenly his eyes were no longer on mine, but watching his hand intently, as if willing it to lower itself.

It was disturbing that I suddenly did not know whether I wanted him to or not.

"What is your name," he said softly, his eyes flicking up to mine before lowering back to his hand. I swallowed thickly and stared down at my toes again, curling them into the soft Persian carpet beneath my feet.

"It…ahh…It i-is Ria. Ria Jahanpur," the whisper came out more quietly then I intended, and even I could hear the nervousness in it as I choked on the words. My cheeks reddened at how silly I sounded, and I shyly raised my gaze to his. When I saw that he was staring closely at my face, I quickly dropped my gaze and cleared my throat.

It was odd…I hadn't expected him to ask for my name. I'd just assumed he'd take what he wanted and kill me.

Perhaps I had judged him too quickly…perhaps everyone had judged him too quickly.

"Not many women of your circumstance have a last name."

My flush deepened and my breath caught. Had he really just called me a woman? I was only a girl, only fifteen! I peered up at him through my lashes as a surge of confidence and pride overcame me at his flattery.

"I wasn't born into the harem," I brought my eyes back to his hand as I spoke, confused at the burning feeling in my stomach that urged me to press his hand to my skin. My fingers twitched, but I did not move otherwise. "I was left at the harem doors when I was but seven years old," I shrugged lightly. "Left by my father."

He didn't seem concerned at my feigned indifference over the matter. His eyes had moved back to my neck.

"I do not have a last name," He said lightly as his hand lowered just barely, his skin almost skimming mine. I bit my lip until it stung. "Mother's are rather forgetful with such things, I suppose." He shrugged carelessly, repeating my gesture with a gracefulness I could never have managed, despite how trained I was to always keep my grace and confidence.

And suddenly I did not want to believe all the countless tales I had heard of him; all those horrible words my fellow slaves had called him, all those ghastly things he had been said to do… I could not bring myself to believe that of the man that stood before me, a man whose mother had not even cared enough to tell him his last name. I desperately wanted to think that we had all thought wrong of him, had never really understood him; and never before had I ever felt such compassion for a man…and I had not the slightest understanding as to why. My eyes lifted from his hand and stared at the unmasked side of his face, and without a moments hesitation my hand lifted too. Lifted until it touched his uncovered cheek.

And when he raised his face to glance at me, the look in his eyes stole my breath. He looked so…so_hopeful_. Like a little lost boy staring at the thing he wanted most in this entire world. Such an adoring look those eyes gave me…

I knew then, as I stared into his eyes, that I could not refuse him. He needed…_me_.

My lips tipped up tremulously, and slowly I moved my hand along his chin…down his neck…across his shoulder and along his trembling arm, until my hand reached his. With the sound of his shaking breath echoing in my ears, I lowered his hand until he touched my skin.

And then a whisper of a sigh sung past both our lips at that so simple contact; trembled in the air around us. My legs quaked until I was sure I was going to fall; I felt as if an electric current had shot all through my body, making everything in me _alive_, as if I was waking for the first time, feeling for the first time; I felt as if irrationally but finally I was exactly where I wanted, where I _needed_, to be. And as abrupt and insane as this new feeling might be, I somehow felt, deep down inside myself, that there was no one better to be with than him at that moment. And suddenly I had never felt so brave as now. I watched him from lowered lashes as I brought his hand across my skin, to the sleeve of my chemisette.

I could feel his entire body tensing as I guided his hand to lower the sleeve, and unbelievable though it was, an adorable blush spread across the one cheek that I could see. He stammered awkwardly as I lifted my hand to that heated cheek, bringing my face close to his in a leap of such courage I would have never thought capable of myself.

He was hardly making sense with his words, but no matter. My lips silenced his easily enough.

* * *

I snapped awake, my breathing loud, my heartbeat rapid. Sweat beaded across my forehead, dripping into my brows when they furrowed in confusion as I took in the surroundings of my darkened room. 

Bit by bit, my senses slowly came back to me and my heart eased its pace. I sucked in a deep breath, filling my constricted lungs as I turned over onto my side, my eyes following the subtle motion of my hand as it stroked along the edge of the pillow I lay on.

For a moment I had thought I had been_ back there_, in that dimly lit apartment. Thought all these years hadn't happened and I would turn over to see my old master, my first master, lying next to me.

But he was not. It was only another dream.

I settled back against my pillow, and as my mixed emotions rolled over me, it was disconcerting to realize that disappointment was the most evident of them all.


	2. Chapter Two: Memories from Persia

**This chapter is one of the few that remained mostly unchanged. **

Chapter Two: Memories from Persia

After several moments of trying and failing to fall back to sleep, I untangled myself from the blanket twisted about my waist and kicked my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing at the stinging sensation on the bottoms of my feet, brought on by the rather cold, hard floor beneath them.

With a yawn cracked open so wide it had my jaw aching, I walked towards the water-filled basin that sat upon the edge of the vanity table, dipping my hands into the bowl and lifting them to douse my face with a handful of cold water. A shiver ran through me as drops of the liquid slithered down my neck and dampened my nightshift.

I leaned against my hands gratefully as the water cooled my heated skin, my mind never straying from the dream I'd just had. I could still feel the coldness of his hand upon my throat, colder even than the water that clung there now, and the burn of those amber eyes as they stared at me with such longing.

It had all felt so _real_.

And how I so remembered those eyes…they had haunted me every day for the past six years, in both my dreams and in every waking moment. I could never forget that look…Allah, such sadness had reflected in his eyes that night.

Trying to clear my mind, and yet hopelessly unable to entirely banish the image of that adoring gaze from my memory, I dried my face and pulled on a rather shabby robe, wrapping it tightly about my waist. After shoving my feet into a pair of worn slippers and running my fingers through my thick, black hair to detangle it, I made my way out into the hall.

Pulling my bedroom door shut behind me, I continued my way down the dimly lit servants corridor, my slippers making light pattering noises on the floor. Upon reaching my destination, which consisted of only a plain wooden door, I eased the door open as silently as I could, poking my head in and peering through the darkness.

My eyes scanned the room, taking in the two small beds that sat next to each other against a wall, and the small dresser that sat next to a chest of toys. I smiled at the mess of toys that still lay on the floor.

It was a small, unadorned room, looking nothing like a normal child's bedroom. But one could not expect more when you made your living as a maid. I supposed it was sufficient enough, but a mother always longs to give her daughter the best. I felt wretched indeed that I could not.

Pushing the plainness of the room and all of my inabilities from my mind, I padded towards one of the beds and smiled warmly at the sight of the occupant; a small, dark skinned, black haired little girl who was currently curled into a tight ball with her blanket bunched down at her feet.

Moving the blanket back over her shoulders and brushing a lock of wavy, raven hair behind her ear, I looked down at my daughter with such tenderness; an aching look that reflected how much my very heart ached with adoration for her.

It was amazing, really, how much she looked like me. The same dark skin, albeit not nearly as dark as mine, and the same thick, black hair. The same curved lip shape and small pert nose. I ran my thumb across that very lip, smiling with affection at the way her long lashes feathered against her skin, giving her a most angelic appearance.

But there was one thing I knew was different that lay beneath those long-lashed eyelids…a pair of amber eyes that burned with a fire as intense as the sun itself.

Exactly like _his_ eyes.

Reassured that little Mina was fine, I moved to exit the room, throwing a glance at the other small head resting on a pillow as the dear one dreamed sweetly on; a daughter of one of the other maids.

I made my way back to my room with a smile still lit upon my face, sighing with relief upon stepping into my private quarters and being able to throw my robe onto the bed.

Pulling my nightshift over my head as I looked through my wardrobe, I sighed again at the sight. Only serviceable black skirts and white blouses for me, entirely suitable for my maid duties. It was hard for a woman like me, so use to having fancy adornments, to get use to my dull wardrobe.

Of course, if dressing prettily meant remaining in Persia, I was glad for the change in wardrobe, though Allah knows there had been times that my corset almost forced my opinion to change. I winced as I tied up the front laces of the wretched thing, sucking my breath in and dreaming of when I'd next be able to take it off.

Honestly, I feel the French are rather strange people, driven to wear things only a lunatic would wear.

After dressing, I left the sanctity of my quarters with a piece of cloth for my hair clenched between my teeth, humming as I tied my hair up in a messy bun and heading out of the servants corridor; it was time to wake the Mistress.

But I could not keep my mind from straying to its earlier thoughts.

_Erik_.

My heart ached at the memories I held of that night. Memories of how hesitant he had been through the whole affair, and of how it had felt sleeping beside him afterwards, feeling a contentment that was entirely new to me. I could remember the way his hands would tremble and pause above me, and the way his voice had shaken as he promised to go slow.

He had treated me in a way that every other man had failed to do; he had granted me such respect and awe that it had almost felt as if I were the master, and he the slave; as if I was something special to him; as if he truly cared for me.

Despite the fear of men that still consumed me most continually, there were times I could not help but reminisce about the way he had treated me. Allah, I missed that feeling so much.

Of course, there had been pain and awkwardness that night. In those first few moments, there had been so much pain that I had wanted him to stop. But when he asked, in that same shaken voice, if he was hurting me and if I wanted him to stop, I could only shake my head in the negative.

It had been rather endearing, after all, that one of the most powerful men in Persia, known for his monstrous executions that so amused the Khanum, had cared enough for my feelings to be so wondrous towards me, and so slow with me.

I closed my eyes, my feet taking me towards my destination by memory, as images filled my mind of the next morning. Of waking up with his face pressed to my neck and the cold leather of his mask leaving me slightly chilled. He had not offered to take it off again that night; he'd even opted to sleep with it on. The relief I had felt about that stirred more than a little guilt.

But soon after I'd woken up, my hands stroking along the cross pattern of scars that stretched across his back, smiling as he still slept on, two eunuchs had arrived to return me to the harem. I could still remember watching them from the window as they waited for me. I could still remember his words to me as he said farewell…

"_Ria…" I turned to look towards him as I re-adjusted my clothes over my frame. He cleared his throat, looking awkward and embarrassed, and pressed a small drawstring pouch into my hand. I glanced down and emptied the contents into my palm, frowning as I realized it contained a large assortment of jewels._

"_There is no need to pay me," I muttered quietly, trying to force them back into his hands. "I was a _gift_." The anger in my voice at such a word did not go unnoticed._

_He frowned down at me, refusing to take them back. "It is not payment. Simply a gift for yourself. Perhaps you will one day leave this place. You will need something to live off of, my dear."_

_I stared down at them for a long while, aware that his gaze was still intent on me. They were pretty, after all. They fairly glimmered up at me with sparkling shades of reds and blues and greens. With a discomfited shrug, I slid the jewels back inside the pouch and loped the strings around my wrist. _

_It was unexpected to feel his fingers at my chin, forcing me to lift my gaze and face him. Despite his grim countenance, he tried to smile, though his lips only achieved the barest twitch upwards._

"_Thank you for-" he cut himself off, taking in a shaky breath before continuing. "Just…thank you. And farewell."_

_My heart was racing as his lips pressed lightly to my cheek, my hands moving of their own accord to the front of his robe, clutching the silken material tightly. He pulled away, staring down at me with an expression I could only describe as one of gratitude. _

And I did not even say good-bye…I simply left him… 

We had been together but once; I had not even known him a full day. And yet, in that moment that he had said farewell, I felt as if it had been the hardest thing for me to do.

After I had left that morning, I'd thought that it was simply because he was my first that I felt so attached. And perhaps, I had thought later as I looked back on the entire event, I had been right about that, or at least partly so. Perhaps if I had met him later, when my girlish innocence had already shriveled and left me, I would not have even had a shred of feeling for him.

But in the beginning, I had merely supposed that any man could evoke such feelings in me.

In the beginning, I had been so naïve.

After Erik, in the times that I had been passed to master after master, I began think that perhaps those supposed feelings had never existed; had been a figment of my imagination. Soon enough, with each new master I was given to, with each time I forced myself to obey their wishes, forced myself to let them befoul my body, my memories of that night began to fade. Fade until they were but dull moments of my past, and the only thing I could truly recall feeling in a man's bed was pain and shame and anger.

How could anything else exist in such a vile act besides dirtiness and shame? How could I have let myself believe that such a thing was anything but wrong?

I closed my eyes in disgust as I remembered all those nights I'd lain in another man's bed, a nearby fire throwing shadows across the room and over my body, leaving my eyes shadowed as a feeling of numbness seeped deep into my heart, as if the shadows of the room had spread their gloom inside of me. And I would feel so utterly cold inside; cold and alone and desperately lonely, despite the arm wrapped around my waist and the hot breath against my shoulder.

I would watch the flames of that fire flicker and move about in a dance that perhaps I had once, myself, partaken in; a dance that I had forgotten, but was maybe still buried deep inside my mind…inside my heart.

But with time, I came to realize such a thing could never possibly happen again. I was no longer the innocent girl I had once been; no longer the fearless girl that swore to herself she could perform her duties emotionlessly, that swore she could handle it, could be strong for herself.

I was no longer myself.

After six months it had become rather obvious that, along with the change of my inner self, there was change to my body as well. It had not taken long at all to realize I was with child.

I had ignored all the first signs: the lack of my menses; the aching breasts; the mood swings; the queasiness and dizziness that struck me every second of every day. Everything had been forgotten among the endless days that I was passed from master to master. But then, perhaps I had not wanted to see, for when I first realized that I truly was pregnant, I had been horrified.

And who would not be? I had only turned sixteen years of age just the month before. I was merely a girl! A young, silly girl. And I had been broken, so completely broken that I feared I was beyond repair. I was in no way ready to become a mother.

But as the weeks went by and I began to adjust to the idea, I found myself growing fond of my swelling belly. Even started to talk to the unborn babe when we were alone, and smiling at the little kicks and jabs that started to come from within my womb.

In time, I came to love the little dear inside of me. And that was when the fear set in.

What if the child was born a girl? She would be taken from me and given to the harem; she would be used by men just as I had. The very thought that she would have to go through such pain and shame sickened me. It would never become easier for her, just as it never had for me.

I could not bear for such a thing to happen. And I would not. Even at my tender age, the fierce, motherly need to protect my child beat ferociously in my heart. I would die a thousand painful deaths before those monsters took my child from me!

And that was when Erik's parting gift had come to be greatly appreciated. I had kept those jewels well hidden from the others, never spending or loosing a single one.

Every night that I was at the harem and not with one of my masters, I would sneak from the seraglio, hurrying to Tehran so as to make my plans. While hidden under the protection of a large, hooded cloak, I bought a horse, telling the stable owner to board it for me until I should have further use of it. I'd made further plans on the ferry I would be leaving upon, and decided on my new place of residence: France. Paris, France.

After weeks of planning to the very last detail and never breathing a word of it to anyone, everything was set. And I most definitely had plenty of jewels left over to see myself safely to France and acquire a job and a home.

There had been times when discovery had almost eminently been upon myself, and I would wait what seemed ages before I started to finish my plans. I could have been caught so easily!

But nonetheless, it had been surprising to achieve everything so quickly and effortlessly. There were times that I wondered exactly why I hadn't done it before. I very certainly could have saved myself much heartache. But when I had hidden those jewels away, out of sight to avoid being taunted by their call of freedom, I had done so upon one single thought; a knowledge that left a terrible fear inside of me, and a desperation to keep away from such temptation:

The punishment for a woman of my circumstance…

Death.

I had no doubt of it. And upon the Khanum's disdain for myself, I who had known Erik far more than even she, I knew that her morbid fascination would delight in seeing me killed in that dreadful torture chamber of her Angel of Doom.

And at that point of naivety that I still retained, when I had not truly begun to understand the fate that was destined to me, that thought had terrified me. I had always been afraid of that room of mirrors. Irrationally, for I had seen it but once, but nonetheless it filled me with much foreboding.

But with the knowledge of pregnancy came the image in my mind of the child growing in my belly, and how different her life could be from mine. It was then that I finally found the courage to escape. The courage to be _free_.

Once I had arrived in France, I knew I would only manage to live off of Erik's parting gift for so long, and I immediately set to looking for work.

It was difficult at first. None seemed prepared to hire a young and very much pregnant girl from a foreign country who knew, at best, a handful of words and phrases of French. For weeks upon weeks I was sick with worry. The helplessness I tried to push away with each day would close in upon me by night, keeping me awake as I wondered if once I did give birth, my child would even live to see it's second month.

But at last came Madame Aurore Laroche, a Comtess whom had taken pity on me and put me on staff with her other two permanent maids. Madame Laroche was a kind woman from the start, elegant and regal with her tiny features and solemn gray eyes. Despite her age, which seemed to me to be in the forties or fifties, she had long, glossy black hair and hardly a wrinkle in sight. She was aged mostly by the sadness that bespoke her eyes, and the constant frown she wore upon her face. If one looked closely, it was simple enough to see the beautiful young lady she once use to be; easy to tell the charm that had once won over her two husbands, both of whom had died.

Over the years I had gleaned enough facts to learn the story; her first marriage had been a poor one with but a simple boy whom had stolen her heart and her hand. A sailor in the makings. But the ship he and his crew were sailing to deliver goods had been taken under attack by pirates, and he had been killed.

The other had been a Comte many, many years later. She had caught his eye on a mere passing through the streets, and soon enough they had fallen in love and eloped against his parent's wishes. But eventually he, too, had been taken from her by means of a fatal illness.

The poor woman had not married again after that. She simply spent her days on social engagements and dinner parties, opera showings and balls. But despite all the activity she commenced herself with, she could not quite hide her loneliness.

The other two maids I was to work with had been kind women as well, both helping to teach me enough French to keep me knowledgeable of what happened around me. It had been rather hard to adjust myself to their language, and it had taken me quite some time to learn. There were doubtless still times I struggled, and even my own daughter knew the language better than I. I managed, however, just as I managed to grow used to my new home…used to how foreign everything was.

But there were times that I missed Persia so much it hurt. It was my true home. A place so exotic and beautiful that it could leave you breathless and in awe of every sight and sound. There were many times at night that I would lie back in bed, thinking of a Persian sunset; remembering how the sun would send rays of fading light over the Arabian terrain, illuminating the cypress trees with fiery light and painting the sky with orange and red hues, like a fire lit above me. I would drift off to sleep thinking of marble buildings glowing brilliantly with that vision of fire as their background, and dream of being home again.

Such dreams did not last, however. For each night, as I dreamt of my homeland, the nightmares would take over…they always did. And I would wake up remembering why I had been forced to leave my country, why I could never go back, why Paris was my new home. I would go about the rest of the day reminding myself why I was here, following one of the maids as she instructed to me what to do.

The maid I knew the least was Paulette; a frizzy-haired blonde with guarded eyes and a stick straight figure. She kept mostly to herself, being the rather plain and shy woman that she was, although she was kindly enough towards me.

I was always closest to Lorraine. She was young like I was, perhaps a few years older, and looking ever the child with her freckled and pale skin, and her red hair making her seem even paler. I had only to see the way her green eyes sparkled warmly and learn the sweet nature of her character to know that she was a true friend that I could count on.

And despite how young she looked, she was more mature and respectful than any woman I had known at our age; she was a mother, just as I was about to be, and the prospect of motherhood had caused her to grow up rather quicker than intended.

Lorraine's daughter, Danielle, was just as sweetly natured as her mother, and retained the same auburn hair and bright green eyes. Being only two years older than Mina, the two girls had become friends from a young age. It was an occurrence that I knew I would always be grateful for; the guilt of not providing well enough for my daughter was a dauntless one, but the small blessing that she at least had a friend was enough to ease it a bit.

A smile pulled at the corners of my lips upon the thought of my daughter. I could very dearly remember when the darling little angel had first been placed in my arms, already with a head full of hair standing straight up, as dark as the night outside the nearby open window. I remembered the breeze that blew in and stirred the room as the little babe looked up at me and opened those eyes.

That first moment when she had opened her eyes, so big and innocent, and we had stared at each other as if nothing else in the world mattered, I'd felt as if I could never love another being anymore than I loved that little girl; that little girl whom had just become the most precious jewel of my heart. I'd stared into those eyes, their irises golden and brilliant, so much like another's that I had seen so long ago, and felt more contentment than ever before.

And I had known. Known that my daughter was Erik's daughter. Known that her father was not a monster, but a man whom had once shown me the only respect and kindness I had ever known. And I had never felt such happiness as I did then.


	3. Chapter Three: The Opera House

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! God, I had 400-something reviews last time, and I'm so sad that I don't anymore. I would love everyone forever if they reviewed (though I probably don't particularly deserve it, after how bloody long it took me to repost!). You'd be the joy of my life if you did, though.**

**And I love the critique, Orianna and Barb! I'm funny that way; I just absolutely thrive off of that chance to better myself. Thanks! In response (and maybe even partly in my defense…I can't help myself), I'd like to say:**

**Orianna: It's like Barb (aka Mominator) said, and I direct quote it: "I LOVE her hatred of the corset! After having spent so much of her life in sheer, flowing, COMFORTABLE clothing, her loathing of European women's wear is SO understandable." It's not so much that I believe the idea of the corset a little too overdramatic (actually, I quite feel it's rather hot looking…), it's just that Ria is so use to her style of clothing from Persia, so freely did they dress over there. But I do see your point; I myself get a little overdramatic sometimes…**

**Barb: More or less, I added my own little touch in there with how I feel that quote would have worked out. I feel that in Kay's book, had she truly stayed with Erik, I doubt that she really would have gone free from the harem (Erik was, after all, nearing the end of his power, and it was evident that he was no longer the absolute favorite of the Shah. Upon the Khanum's disdain for his arrogantly willful ways, I think she would not have let the little slave girl go). So I made it more or less that he was saying she'd be free of **_**him**_** at dawn, rather than her life at the harem (hence why I cut the line he said in Kay's book about her living the rest of her life out in comfort). Besides, I could not resist myself. I wanted Ria to be**_**real**_**, you know, I wanted her to have real emotion and I wanted her to have guts after what she'd been through. I wanted her to almost, and I stretch that word almost for nothing could ever compare, but almost have a glimpse into a life where you could hardly stand the cruelty of humanity (and thus in a way, almost relating to Erik). I didn't want her to be some happy character that escaped the horrors of the harem so easily. As much as I love my Ria, and I do love her, I wanted her to **_**hurt**_

**In answer to your other questions: there are still jewels left, though they are a bit depleted. It's as you said, she's storing them for an emergency (though, as we see later in the story, she uses some for something slightly less than an emergency. I suppose you could call it a feminine emergency, but I digress. You shall see that later). As for her choosing France, I figured she'd want her daughter to grow up in such a place, seeing as her daughter was half French herself. She wanted her to see a bit of the world her father had been apart of (though, perhaps, Erik had made the country slightly more appealing to Ria as well, I never really thought about that). I think I should really add that to the story…hmm…**

**Anyway, I definitely appreciate the offer to beta, and I'm very interested to see your work! Just send me an email and we'll talk! Thanks so much! **

**And wow, that was a ridiculously long author's note. Please, by all means, read on… **

Chapter Three: The Opera House

With a clearing of the throat and a small warning tap at the door, I quietly eased myself into Madame Laroche's room. The room was a far cry fancier than mine with walls decked in rich hues of blue, and dark satin curtains on the windows cutting out all sunlight, throwing dark shadows all about the room. The polished wood floor gleamed up at me, and above me the ceiling swirled with desert colors, almost reminding me of Persia.

The immaculately matching furniture added feminine touch to the well-to-do room, and the blue satin blankets covering the mammoth bed looked luxuriously comfortable. You could see, beneath the tall pile of luscious fabric, the very small figure of a woman.

With a loud 'whoosh' the heavy curtains were pushed aside most heartily, and sunlight streamed into the room, beaming all around me. I smiled to myself to see how cheery and quaint everything looked now within the golden picturesque glow.

The figure in the bed stirred slightly, and unwillingly it seemed as a small groan gave voice. Slowly but surely the blankets made their way to the foot of the bed, as my mistress's feet pushed them down. She brushed her hair out of her sleepy eyes as she pushed herself from the bed.

I pulled out my plain skirts delicately and curtsied, bowing my head low with respect as I spoke in a thick and faltering accent. "Good morning, Madame Laroche. Are you feeling quite well this morning, mistress?" She looked more tired and haggard then was normal for her, being such the busy woman she was most of the time, and the sadness that always seemed to echo from her eyes had grown more profound as of late.

"Gabriel isn't coming to visit, as was planned," she said shortly before splashing some water on her face from a basin sitting near her bed. She continued as she dried her face off and tossed her nightshift over her head. "There was a letter. His wife is ill. Deathly ill. He is staying by her side until…well, until the inevitable happens, most likely. And most likely he'll catch it himself."

"Oh, mistress, I'm sorry! You must be so worried," my whisper was gentle as I laced up her corset. Aurore Laroche had lost much in her lifetime, and tragedy ever seemed to be stretching its hand across her with its uncompromising doom. Gabriel was her nephew, and he remained to be her last living family. I knew she cared for him very deeply, perhaps as deeply as one might care for their own child. To see him thus saddened by his own miserable losses would be difficult for her to see.

"I have grown use to the tragedy that enshrouds my family," she murmured. "To be in this family is to stand by and watch as everything you hold dear dies."

My gaze towards her was compassionate as I did her hair, my eyes no doubt pitying as they stared through the mirrors reflection into her own clear gray eyes. The woman had withstood time and time again a fate worse then death. Her daughter, her one and only child from her first marriage, had died barely a month after it's birth, followed by her husband, the sailor man of her heart. She could never replace the void they had left her in, though she had tried with her second, tried and almost succeeded, for I knew she had cared for her Comte very strongly. And yet he was taken too, leaving her alone in a world where she had no family, and hardly a true friend to her name.

Only her nephew was left. And now it seemed that he, too, might be taken from her.

"No matter," she said brusquely all of the sudden, with an air about her of abrupt defiance to the sadness that seemed to so enshroud her, like an old and black cloak that one might never get rid of. I only barely masked my surprise that she could push those tragic thoughts away from her mind so swiftly. But nevertheless, she was a strong woman indeed, with years of practice in closing her eyes to her tragic little life. I brought myself back to what she was saying.

"I have decided, more or less, the dress I would like to have prepared for myself," this said as she slipped a piece of folded parchment into my hands. "I want to look my best for these guests of mine, and I have only a few weeks to do it."

Guests? I rather had a feeling I had missed a part of this conversation. But I could always find out more from Lorraine later in the day. If I was to get this dress design to her regular seamstress, then I had best hurry. I had other chores to take care of, and if guests were coming soon, there must be no slacking off.

"You will take care of this now, today," continued Madame, "there's little enough time for the dress to be finished."

And with that she swept from the room with that way about her that was, I had to admit, a little too brusque. But she was kind enough, in her own way. Mistress had had her fair share of hardships after all, and they only seemed to be mounting. I would have given a sad sigh for her, or tried to be more of a friend than a servant to her, if I hadn't known already that it wasn't pity or friendship that she wanted.

Besides, such as the likes of I couldn't hope to make friends with a lady such as her. It was a little sad, perhaps, that I should miss the days when I had once been in the spotlight, surrounded by the rich and powerful, a slave, yes, but never a servant that toiled in the kitchens and cleaned floors and wore plain clothes.

But I went about my servant tasks, making her bed and stuffing her nightshift and such in the linen bag she had for dirties. Thank Allah today wasn't washday, or I wouldn't have had time for the seamstress.

When the room seemed tidy enough, I made my way out, heading down the imperial stairs that led to the foyer. I paused at the doors of the kitchen, to be sure that Lorraine didn't need any help with breakfast, but she waved me off. And so I drifted towards my own little room, and it seemed to cloak me with a deep loneliness, just as Laroche was cloaked with her sadness.

* * *

Of course, if you reckoned my daughter into the picture, I could hardly stay too terribly lonely for long. For I had no sooner made it into that room to don my cloak and slip the little piece of instructions Mistress had given me into my small purse, when a pair of little arms wrapped tight around my waist. My lips couldn't help curving into a little smile of happiness as I looked down and smoothed my fingers through that raven head of hair as Mina burrowed her face into my stomach.

"Mama," came her sigh against my belly as her tiny fingers clutched at my skirts. "When are you going to take me back to the park," she said petulantly, staring up at me with her in wide-eyed hope. Those amber-bright eyes always seemed so big on that little face. I sighed heavily. I'd been promising the girl for the whole of the week that we'd go soon to the Bois, and the dear had taken to asking me every morning about my promise. I so hated to disappoint her yet again.

"I'm sorry, Mina, we will go soon, but I'm afraid I cannot take you today. Just a few more days, when it is my day off, and you have my word that we'll go." I smiled sadly at the crushed disappointment that crossed her face. But never once did she utter complaint, or beg and plead until my wits reached their end. She was ever a dutiful girl, her only aim seeming to be that she pleased me. I never ceased to be proud of the little daughter I was raising.

"Okay," was all she said, albeit in a rather skeptical tone. "But don't forget." I grinned down at her cross expression, with her brows furrowed in a rather stern, adorable manner.

I fetched my cloak from the peg I had it hung up on, pulling it on and hoping that the dreary mood I seemed to be in didn't portray itself to her. Being as who her father was, it wasn't all that surprising that the dear was entirely too perceptive for her own good. And for a six-year old, she was vastly intelligent and imaginative, catching on naturally to reading and learning, teaching herself to play on various instruments and devising things in her little mind I could scarcely comprehend. I supposed it had been the same for Erik, and I felt more than a little pride at the thought that I was raising a child of genius intellect.

She watched me as I donned my cloak, chin in hands and elbows propped up on my bed as her legs swung through the air behind her.

"Are you okay, Mama," she said sweetly in a voice that seemed to echo with music and pureness. I sunk down onto the bed next to her, smiling as my fingers idly ran across her back. She sat up to crawl onto my lap, wrapping her arms around my waist and squeezing affectionately, as if hoping to push away the demons that plagued me this day. As I held her in my arms, I couldn't even begin to imagine how dreary life would seem without this darling of mine.

Distantly I recalled a time when I'd been so completely frightened of motherhood, but now, with my daughter in my arms, I couldn't imagine a calling I would rather choose. Nothing else could give me the happiness and contentment she did. Nothing else could make me feel that, for once, I'd done something quite right. Something that made my life blaze with meaning and brought the world alive for me, when before I had been but a shell that ever saw a piteous darkness before myself.

My heart that had grown so shriveled and numb within my breast had been saved by her birth. I could never regret her, for she had saved me from my hellish doom in Persia. I could never regret Erik, for he had given me a bright jewel, a wondrous child that I could forever love and keep. It filled me with sadness that I would never see him again. That he should never see the daughter that he had crafted and made more lovingly then any piece of stone for a building, nor any drop of the glorious music he played.

I thought on this, and thought on how despite my dreary past and my tentative grasp towards the unknown future, with this girl by my side, everything would be all right somehow. The tension that had been building in my shoulders since the moment I had woken up this morning seemed to ease away, and I hugged Mina all the tighter.

"I'm fine, my girl. I've got you, have I not? Why shouldn't I be okay?" I whispered against her ear. She smiled up at me, and kissed me very softly on my cheek before scooting off my lap, and I stood with her, adjusting my cloak. "Now, I have some errands to run for Madame Laroche. I should be back in just a little while."

Mina nodded and, with a last wave at me and a quick "love you", was out the door and down the hall, off to think up some fresh and awesome imaginative something or other, no doubt. A smile flitted across my face in her wake, before I too made my way out of the room.

* * *

It was well after an hour before I was walking back out of the double glass doors of Madame Laroche's favorite little fancy dress shop, followed by an exuberant "thank-you" of Madame Charlotte Rousseau, my Lady's seamstress. I made my way down the walk with quick steps, squinting against the glare of white snow that fell all around me.

I passed many buildings on my way, but for some reason I paused outside of one; the ever so glorious _Palais Garnier_, the Paris Opera House. It was a lovely building, breathtaking with its great pillars across the front, each baring statues with rather anguished looking faces. Indeed, it seemed faces gazed at me from all over the walls, with their closed-eyed, open-mouthed sorrow. At the top, I could see two great, golden statues staring about imperiously, their glory lit by the sun shining wildly upon them. The marble of the building fairly gleamed.

I had never been to the Opera Garnier, but I heard from Mistress of the glorious music that seemed to swell in its breathtaking triumph, the ravenous applause that echoed from a great room where a courageous red seemed to drape upon every surface. This building was the highlight of the city. I didn't know much about it, nor why it could never quite keep a manager for long these days, but I had heard the place had seemed to be disheartened as of late after some tragic affair had happened. They said that the heart had gone right out of the place.

I thought about the music that filled the halls of this building and, out of nowhere I suddenly thought that it would be a place that Erik would have dearly loved. For music so seemed to fill his soul in every aspect, enshroud him in its loving beauty and, at times, in its painstaking sadness. I remembered how he had sung me to sleep that night, that terrifying and wondrous night when it had seemed only the two of us had existed in a tragic land, when we had clung to each other in our unyielding ardor. His voice had carried me on waves of pure golden sound, until I slept soundly, truly content for the first time, in his arms.

_How I so dearly wished to hear that voice again_…

I'm not sure why, at that moment, I suddenly had the impulse to go inside. To see and hear what it was that meant so much to him. But I was drawn to the building unequivocally, my footsteps light as I headed towards the great doors of the entrance.

Until the voice stopped me. The wind seemed to carry the sound on its waves of movement, whirling it through the swirling snow. It seemed to be coming from around the side of the building, ringing out with such intensity and longing passion that I was mesmerized, held frozen where I was on the walkway.

Something pulled me in the direction of that voice like a moth to a flame, heedlessly heading towards its doom and yet not caring, not knowing, just inexorably attracted with a need to look and touch and hear, a need to feel. In the loss of my senses I followed it without question, without doubt as a hazy cloud enveloped my mind with the pure loveliness of that voice. I ignored the chill in the air that crept itself around me, ignored how frozen my fingers felt. All that mattered was the music and the voice.

My pace was slow and absent as I made my way languorously around the side of the building, my eyes drifting shut as I brought myself so close to that sound, so close to a voice that sounded more beautiful than anything I'd ever heard, and tears rose unbidden to my eyes as that heartbreaking melody filled my soul and echoed the aching loneliness of my heart. And in a way, that voice, that utterly heroic and sweetly sung voice sounded almost peculiarly familiar to me, like a long forgotten dream that lay imbedded in my heart.

The racing of my heart barely registered to me, nor the shaking of my entire body as the sound of that poignant song completely filled me up with its beauty and its darkness, its sadness crying out to me, commanding that I follow. That music seemed to rise in phenomenal heights of sound, carrying me with it on astounding waves of ecstasy. I listened on in rapture, never heeding where my steps went, just gliding listlessly along until I should finally be reunited with that voice, for I felt as if I had met it before, somewhere, long ago.

And then, as quickly as the music had started, it stopped. I felt as if something dear had been ripped from my grasp, and a sudden bereavement overcame me as I opened my eyes with, I was sure, a petulant look on my face.

"Oh!" I gave a startled gasp as a shadowed figure loomed ahead of me. Before I could get a glance of what or who it was, before I could even think to run away, it disappeared.

The uneasy silence that settled over the area brought goose bumps across my flesh that had nothing to do with the unending coldness that the snow surrounded me with. A dull ringing pounded in my ears. I could feel it…a sudden eeriness, as if that shadow was still nearby, watching me, perhaps waiting for me to move nearer to it so it could attack.

I backed up, my feet slow and unsteady as my entire body buzzed with nerves of fright. My fingers melded together, twisting about endlessly as my palms grew clammy with sweat despite the chill in the air.

It was then that the silence was broken by a cold laugh that sounded from above me, and both my hands quickly covered my mouth to contain the slight scream that had half-risen from my throat. I quickly turned on my feet with the intent to leave this place as quickly as I could, but as I turned I realized I had no chance of running.

For the shadow stood behind me. Or rather, a man that seemed like a shadow, for he was dressed entirely in black, and his form was so incredibly tall that it cast a shadow over my rather short stature. Upon first seeing him, the suppressed scream finally tore free from my throat, and I took several steps away from him, tripping over my feet in the urgent rush and barely managing to stay upright.

And then my eyes cast a second glance upon his face, and my hands fell from my suddenly colorless lips to my sides as I stood still with shock. For only half of his face was visible, and the other half…it was enshrouded by a stark white mask that stretched from forehead to chin, and covered the entirety of his nose.

_I knew this man. _


	4. Chapter Four: Reunion

**Thanks for the reviews, guys! It means a lot to see that some of you have still stuck with me after so long; I love you so much! And I'm excited to see some new readers, too. Thank you, thank you! **

**This is a chapter I like a lot, merely for what I added with how Ria discovers Erik was the Phantom of the Opera. I don't know why I like it so much; it was just a lot of fun to write. So, I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! **

Chapter Four: Reunion

_I knew this man._

The thought rang through my mind as if an echo, as if rather stupidly it was all I could manage to think as I stared at him, transfixed…frozen in place by both fear and awe.

Perhaps it was the fact that the man standing in front of me was truly Erik, the first and only man I'd ever come to respect despite his terrible coldness and murderous horrors, and also the father of my child. Perhaps that was why my legs were trembling and my head spinning, and why I was praying to Allah to keep myself from fainting. Or perhaps there was another reason entirely. A reason that I dared not embellish on, least of all to myself.

Lowering my eyes, I smoothed my fingers over the drab skirts that I wore, trying to act calmly, indifferently, as if I had not a care in the world. But deep down I was anything but calm. My heart had taken to hammering painfully against my chest, and my stomach churned as if I might any moment loose my meager breakfast, just as I had seemed to momentarily loose my wits.

And for those first few moments, with the most dreadful silence I had ever experienced hanging down upon us, I thought I had also lost my voice. I opened my mouth to speak, and the words would not come…I choked.

My mouth immediately clamped shut and, unsure of what else I could do, I raised my eyes to his, tilting my chin up with a braveness that I certainly did not feel, and felt even less so as I was reintroduced to just how tall he was. I'd almost forgotten the looming shadow he seemed to be, towering above my rather unimpressive stature.

I had not, however, forgotten his eyes. Their hopeless golden gaze was forever ingrained in my memory, and they were the same as ever in their brilliance; two amber-bright pools gleaming from the shadow that seemed to hover around him, a gaze that was both beautiful and shrewd in its intensity. And yet…they were not the same. For in his eyes I saw new tragedy…a sadness that could not even compare to the way he had looked at me that first night, and no matter how much coldness filled his eyes, no matter the way they narrowed and intimidated, he could not quite hide such a powerful emotion.

Not from me, at least. For I knew that very same look; knew it by heart; knew it by my own reflection.

Nonetheless, he still seemed rather unchanged. His face seemed to have aged a bit prematurely, with deep frown lines between his brow and mask, and he seemed even paler then when I'd first met him. But the same little scar stretched over his temple, and the same raven hair lay atop his head, thick and slightly wavy. The glare of sunlight and snow that seemed to festoon around us could not quite lessen the darkness that so utterly enveloped him, as if that darkness were indeed always a part of him; but I fancied his hair looked as if it had auburn streaks through it in the golden light.

The white half-mask, a rather striking difference from the usual black mask he had worn when I first met him, was perhaps the most prominent thing about him. Enshrouded in shadows as he was, the mask seemed to strike out from all that darkness, arching above his eye to resemble a brow just as permanently haughty as his other, and its whiteness only slightly paler than his face, making his thin lips look almost blood red.

Not for the first time, I wondered what lay beneath that mask. And, not for the first time, I almost felt relief upon the fact that I did not have to know.

What horror did he hide…

"Ria."

I swallowed thickly as he said my name…said it with such coldness I would have been afraid had I not already known him from before. And maybe I was a little afraid.

But despite the nervousness I felt and the step backwards that I took, a small part of me felt almost pleased. _He remembered me…_

"Erik," I said back, and was proud to hear how steady my voice sounded. "Do you come here often?"

He laughed then. But when I say laughed, I did not mean to imply that it was a joyous or an altogether pleasing sound, because it was not. It was cold, just as everything else about him seemed to be. Cold and menacing. More of a monstrous chuckle than a laugh.

But then he stopped just as abruptly as he had started. "Perhaps I use to. But…not anymore."

I nodded as if what he said made a lot of sense…but I had not really understood. Then again, I doubted I could have understood anything he'd said to me, for in that one sentence his voice had lacked the coldness that had embraced his laugh. His voice had been so very beautiful just then…oh, how I had _missed_ that voice.

He could have told me he wished to kill me by long, protracted torture, and still I would have nodded with a smile!

"Been in Paris long, my dear?"

At that I smiled. "Oh, yes," I said, all the while with my hands behind my back, my fingers twisting round and round. "Six years."

"How very pleasant for you," the sarcasm in his voice was dully noted. "But what are you doing _here_?"

I tried to get an answer from what I was starting to think of as a rather useless mind, but I could not seem to pull a single coherent thought. What was this man doing to me? Why had I sought out that passionate voice? With the spell of its beauty quite gone from me, I could see now how foolish I had been.

"I…I do not exactly know…" I smiled foolishly, as if trying to apologize for my useless answer; how idiotic I sounded! The corner of his mouth twitched upwards just slightly, but that was the only reaction he gave. He only continued to stare at me, silent as corpse, and as terrifying as one, as well! That man, and after what I had done for him; he was rude and absolutely infuriating! I wished he would say something more; I wished he would be less cold towards me; I wished…oh, how I _wished_ he would-

"I…" my voice trembled just slightly from embarrassment, and I could feel heat flaming upon my cheeks. "I heard someone singing. My curiosity got the better of me, I suppose." I should have realized it had been his voice! How could I have not matched the beauty of that sound?

"Ah. I see." He leaned casually against the side of the building, next to a rusted gate wrought with the ivy that clung its way up the bars. He crossed his arms eloquently, in a manner I thought far too arrogant. The devilish man!

My brows furrowed to match the sudden frown on my lips. "Well, it would appear you do not much like company. Perhaps I will just take my leave."

And with that I moved to walk past him, my eyes staring straight forward, expressing how firm I was in my resolute to move on and make my way home. I was starting shiver rather badly after all. I needed warmth desperately. I needed my daughter's comfort.

But just as I moved past him, his hand shot out and grasped my wrist tightly.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out, and my eyes dropped to where his hand held my wrist. His fingers clutched so tightly I could see my skin growing a bit red. But despite the slight pain I felt in my wrist, the only thing I could truly decipher was the coldness of his hand, ever colder than the snow that brushed against my cheeks and clung to my lashes, and the paleness of it compared to mine…the paleness of those long, cold fingers, so slender despite their strength.

_Do not dare think of it, Ria…_

But it was too late. Already the image of his hand, trembling a mere inch above my throat, formed in my mind. The feeling of his fingers spread across my skin. The sound of our intake of breath, and the way we stared at each other as I slowly rose up on my toes and his head dipped down with hesitance…

With a shiver, my eyes hesitantly found their way to his. He was so close I could see the little bits of snow that clung to his own lashes despite how he tried to blink them away. Such a sight had me biting my lip so hard it stung.

And then he quickly dropped my wrist, and as I watched, the redness to my skin started to fade away. I couldn't help but wonder if he had remembered the very thing that I had.

I had to leave; I had to get away from him, right away, as soon as possible. I couldn't bear to stand so close to him, I could hardly stand the torment of it all! This was wrong, all wrong! And yet…I couldn't force myself to move. I wanted to know…wanted to hear what he seemed he so badly wanted to say to me.

My breath was shaky when I finally looked up again, straight into his narrowed eyes. We both stood, our faces turned slightly to stare at one another, our arms almost touching, him hardly daring to breath and myself hardly able to control my own breathing. We stared at each other for the longest moment. And then I spoke:

"Was there something else you wanted to say…Erik?"

He said nothing. Only stared at me for what seemed forever, something buried deep in the gaze of his eyes, an emotion only the most foolish would seek to find. And then he looked away, with only the barest shake of his head to dismiss me. I swallowed my disappointment. Told myself that leaving here was what I wanted to do, _needed_ to do.

"Then I must go. I have errands to run for my Lady. Madame Laroche will be expecting me back soon. Good bye, Erik." It was odd, really, that those three words of farewell that I should have said to him so long ago were only just now being whispered; and yet they now seemed so inadequate, when there was something else entirely that I longed so much to say.

I'd barely made it three paces when he called out to me.

"Ria,"

I could have sobbed at the sound of that voice, saying my name as if…as if…

His voice was doing odd things to me, affecting me in a way that made my stomach churn in fear of what that could mean. I felt feverish at the way his eyes regarded me, felt as if I was drowning in hot water from the intensity of his stare. And like the coward I was, I fled. Turned my back on him and almost ran in my haste to get away, to escape that look in his eyes, that unknown feeling I heard in his voice.

I was almost around the corner of the building when I turned to look back upon him one last time, to store up more memories that would never be forgotten.

But he was already gone.

* * *

I was several blocks away from that wretched opera house when my anguish finally grew so unbearable it had me collapsing on a stone bench. My hands were shaking; my whole body was shaking. I buried my face in those hands as I took in great, gulping breaths, as if I had truly just been drowning in the wake of his stare, and only just now broke free of the surface to take my first breath of sweet, sweet air.

I sat there, trying to stop the mounting panic that had grabbed hold of my senses, trying to slow the racing of my wicked heart, trying and trying so hard to forget! How I longed to just erase my memory, to forget this intolerable burden that seemed to press upon my being with a fierce intensity. But with my eyes closed and my palms pressed tightly to the lids, the blackness of my vision was forced away with the image of him…Erik.

He was actually here! I had actually spoken with the father of my child. He had remembered me, placed his hand upon my arm as if deep down he had not wanted me to leave.

_The father of my child…_

By Allah, why had I not told him? What was wrong with me? How could I have forgotten everything being in the mere presence of him? He deserved to know._ Mina_ deserved a father.

As I sat there, cursing myself for stupidity, for my utter cowardice, the urge to get up from where I sat and march back to the Palais Garnier was so strong I almost gave in. I would find Erik, wherever he had disappeared to, and tell him the truth.

_But I can't_.

The little voice rang out in my mind pitifully. And I suddenly felt sickened with myself. My hands slid into my hair, rubbing my scalp to rid myself of the sudden headache I felt, my eyes narrowed as they looked down at my feet.

_A Coward_. That was exactly what I was.

I felt torn. A part of me wanted to tell him about his daughter so badly, and I hoped with all my heart that one day I would see him again. The yearning to be a good mother to my daughter, to do right by Mina, was a deep and strong emotion, something that constantly preyed upon me. But another part, the part that I had pushed aside ever since I had left Persia, the part of me that I refused to let surface upon the fact that I had a daughter and that my daughter needed my strength, that part was scared. I did not want to face him. I did not want to admit the truth. Who knew how he would react?

My head started to pound with ever more brutality. These past six years I had faced some of the most difficult decisions of my life. I had faced them and pushed through them even when I had lost all faith in mankind…had lost all faith in myself. I had done so for my daughter. She had been my strength through it all, and even in my darkest and most despairing of moments, at a time when I had almost given up; I had refused to do so -- for her.

And now, when my strength mattered the most, I did not know what to do. And I suddenly felt so tired; vulnerable and alone. Where had my strength gone?

_I'm tired of being strong_.

But who was I without my strength? Where would Mina be without my strength? I could not afford to give up!

Taking a deep breath, I lifted my head from my hands, my expression emotionless as I surveyed my surroundings.

And slowly…I found my courage. I straightened my shoulders as I got to my feet and started the long trek back to the Laroche estate. I would _not_ give up. I would not give in to weakness, not now after I had made it so far.

And oddly enough, a strange sort of giddiness seemed to brighten my heart and make my steps grow light with a happiness I could in no way explain. _Maybe I _would _see him again…_

A smile, the first true smile I had ever had in the absence of my daughter, who until now had been my only reason for gladness and smiles, spread across my lips.

* * *

It had been a long and tiresome day for me, and as the end of the evening ticked closer and closer on the grandfather clock in the entrance hall, my relief was certainly growing more obvious by the tick. I was very much looking forward to crawling into bed, to fall into such a deep sleep that I need not have dreams; that I need not remember 

Brushing a sweaty strand of hair from my eyes, I headed down one of the halls, making my way to the library. Mina would no doubt be lurking among all the books, reading up on another foreign country or practicing her music on the piano that was kept in the library; she'd been learning to play from books, of course, teaching herself something that came as naturally to her as breathing.

The door eased open quietly, and I slipped inside looking for any sign of my studious daughter. The room, indeed a grand room with floors and high walls made of white marble, and with gleaming wooden bookshelves that rose up perilously, was silent but for the slight noise of my steps. I saw no sign of Mina, but to the left, between two shelves, light from an oil lamp shone out.

But when I peered between the shelves, Mina was not there. Instead there was only a stack of newspapers, slightly dusty with age, though apparently not too terribly old, for the dates I saw lining the tops of a few of them dated back to only a year ago. Beside them sat the oil lamp.

With a heavy sigh, I retrieved the oil lamp and started to leave in continuation of my search for the wayward child. As I walked past the newspapers, however, my hip brushed their edges, causing the tall pile to teeter dramatically before crashing to the floor. With a frustrated groan I set the oil lamp back down and bent to pile the papers back up, glancing at their front pages as I did so; one in particular caught my eye upon first glance, the picture glaring up at me from the front page attracting all of my attention at once.

I was staring at a picture of the Opera Garnier, and above it a headline blazing the words: _'Two Hundred Thousand Kilos on a Concierge's Head!'_ My interest was instantly piqued. With widening eyes, I skimmed the article:

_…after the mysterious mishap with the Opera's diva, La Carlotta…chandelier swung violently before finally crashing, killing only one…husband devastated…many injured…members of the cast insist that the House that night was cursed…_

I read on, feeling dreadful for the dead concierge and her poor husband, and indignation that whoever built the blasted chandelier couldn't have made it more stable.

I was going to stack the paper with the rest when my eyes caught an odd statement.

…_several dancers joked in nervous tones that it must have been the Ghost…_

My breath caught as a mindless dread came over me, and I read more, my eyes skimming through only the bits and pieces that pieced together an all too horrifying truth…

_…Upon further investigation of this so called 'Ghost', rumors have been discovered of the Palais Garnier being haunted by a man as thin as a skeleton, with pits for eyes and a head of fire…a man who wanders the halls and disappears as quickly as he appears…a man whom, by the claim of the dancers, allegedly murdered Joseph Buquet, former chief stagehand…Buquet was said to of hung himself with a rope…_

A single hand rose to cover my lips on that word.

_A rope._

_Allah._

My gaze went to the picture again, riveted upon the black and white picture of the Palais Garnier, my mind full of memories from that morning.

_"Do you come here often?"_

_"Perhaps I use to. But…not anymore."_

The voices echoed through my mind, as if the day was now on replay. And through it all I heard that laugh, that horrible laugh that so chilled my flesh. Perhaps now I knew what was so amusing to him. Perhaps he had not changed at all.

I glanced down, and another newspaper, half covered, caught my eye. It bore the headline:_ 'Chagny Married And On The Run From A Ghost!'_ My eyes were immediately attracted to the middle of the article.

_…Following the disappearance of Daae was a hasty marriage between herself and the Vicomte de Chagny, wasting no time with the death of his brother, the esteemed Comte de Chagny. Scandal and deceit will surely follow this new family, no matter the fact they the couple seem to have disappeared to another country…sources say the couple is running from the rumored Opera Ghost of the Palais Garnier, the demon the corps de ballet condemn for the new Viscomtess de Chagny's kidnapping on the night of her Faust debut, the very same night that the Comte de Chagny drowned. One such dancer claims to have seen the alleged Phantom of the Opera that night, just moments before Christine Daae's kidnapping, saying the ghost simply wore a mask that covered half of his face…_

I didn't need to read any further. The paper fell from my fingers just as my knees grew weak. I slid to the floor with wide eyes, not able to make even the smallest of noises.

* * *

"He hasn't changed one bit."

My words seemed to hang in the air as I hugged my knees to my chest, bringing my blanket closer under my chin. The giddiness I had felt earlier, those moments when I first laid my eyes on Erik again, had depleted, had left me feeling a strange emptiness. It had been an hour after I'd found Mina and put her to bed. An hour since I'd come to my own bed, despite its uselessness tonight.

I doubted I'd be getting any sleep. For it had also only been an hour since I'd realized that Erik was still a murderer.

Falling back onto my bed, I burrowed my face in my pillow, curled into a small ball. Through all of my melodrama, one thought ceaselessly echoed.

Erik was the infamous Phantom of the Opera. There was no point in denying such a fact. There was no point deluding myself into thinking that maybe it wasn't him. That maybe he had changed. That maybe there was another masked man running around the city of Paris.

I snorted, rolling my eyes and smiling despite myself.

My thoughts turned to the girl he had kidnapped in his apparent desperation to have her, this Daae singer. I tried to deny it, tried to ignore it, but deep down I felt something that I had never felt before.

Jealousy.

It was strange to be feeling such a thing. I'd never been jealous of the other harem girls, for they had been in my very same circumstance. I'd never been jealous of the men, what with their freedom, for I figured to be a man would be a pity, for after all they were such beasts, men.

But now, irrevocably, I felt a simmering anger at this Christine Daae girl. I was jealous, I knew, of the attention Erik had no doubt given her.

Laughing dryly, I turned to my side. What did I need with his attention? He'd kidnapped her, had he not? Doubtful anyone should want such negative attention like that from a man like him. Least of all myself.

And with that, I fell asleep. But my dreams were haunted by a flock of dancing girls, each pointing behind me and screaming, "The Phantom! He has Christine!" and when I turned to look, I only saw his shadow, laughing in its infinite cruelty.

* * *

I found myself walking from Madame Rousseau's dress shop two weeks later, my hands crossed over my belly where I hid my Lady's wrapped dress inside my cloak. As I walked my eyes reverently gazed upon the sky, where the sun disappeared behind the array of buildings. The dying light sent a vast amount of fiery hues across the sky, the reds and oranges piercing through the clouds and sweeping the sky with curling shapes.

The dusky view was a glorious one, but one that nonetheless made my heart ache. For no matter the beauty of France, it could not compare to a land of exotic proportion. My homeland.

How I missed it sometimes.

I tried to push those thoughts away, tried to forget the past that so haunted me but, alas, some memories are better thought of than others. It was best to just think on something as innocent and breathtaking as a sunset, rather than the cringe-worthy memories that still pressed themselves upon me, in the back on my mind, hidden away where only the most foolhardy would seek to go.

A sigh escaped my lips, and a cloud of white mist puffed up in front of my face. I smiled in childish joy, breathing out against my hands and watching the white puffs form with delight. In Persia, we'd never had snow, never had whether so cold you could see testament of your breath before your very eyes. I looked ahead to see if anyone had caught sight of my foolish antics.

And almost froze at what I saw. A tall shadow, making its way around the corner of a building, down a dark and unfamiliar street. Suddenly I had forgotten that he still murdered and destroyed; I forgot that I should be truly afraid of him more than anything else I might have felt. But the only thing I felt was a strong and urgent wish to see him, to speak to him, to hear that godly voice. I didn't even think, such a fool I was, didn't even question.

I followed.

Turning the corner, I saw him a little ways ahead of me. I dearly wanted to call out, tell him to wait, but fear, it seemed, is an ever present emotion I had with each time I saw him. And so I stayed silent, trying to keep him in sight and follow him to wherever he was going. I didn't know why I suddenly insisted on following him, didn't know what I would do once I got there, or how I would get home from the unknown streets. I just could not stop myself!

It seemed we walked forever, making turns and winding through streets growing slummier by the minute, until I was so lost I would never find my way back. And still we walked.

A shiver ran through my already trembling body, the bite of the chill air turning my cheeks pink and my nose frozen. The path was lit by a few luminescent street lights, the sun having long since disappeared, and snow was starting to fall from above, clouding my vision until I could hardly see Erik in front of me. The snow was so deep that my feet were starting to sink down into it, lagging my steps until Erik was so far ahead of me I feared I would loose him. I tried to call out, but the air froze my throat, and with the gasp of breath I took to speak out with I gave a deep, aching cough instead.

I could hardly feel my numbing toes as melting snow leaked into my shoes. The pain had been so much, more of an awful, searing burning rather than freezing, that the numbness was entirely welcome. And so still I trudged on, pain creeping over my whole body, my dress getting wet from snow, my breath coming in great gasps until I had to bend over from the hacking coughs that rose from my throat. There was a terrible ache in my chest.

When I straightened back up, he was gone.

My look about the streets was terrified. It was almost completely deserted at this hour, and anyone that was about was certainly no one I would want to ask directions from. There were only a few haggard and dirtied beggars, and a few eyes that peeked out from darkened alleyways. I saw the glint of a knife in a man's belt as he walked past me with a great sneering look upon his face.

I couldn't hold back the sob that rose from my throat as I hurried down the street in the direction Erik had last been going. I tried to run, but I could hardly move I was so frozen.

"Erik," I whispered in a wretched little voice, for a whisper was all I could seem to utter as another bout of hacking overcame me.

And there, with my hand braced against a wall near the start of an alley, suddenly another hand reached out past the darkness, and pulled me into the shadows. The last thing I screamed, as loud as I possibly could before the hand clamped over my parted lips, was Erik's name.


	5. Chapter Five: Le Bruant des Marais

**Here we are with the next chapter. This is one of my favorites, so I hope you guys enjoy it. There are a lot of changes in this chapter; a LOT.**

**As usual, thanks for the reviews! I'm sorry I'm only able to update on the weekends; you guys deserve better. I've had to put in so much overtime at work, though. I'm sorry!**

**And a big, uber-duber thank you to my new beta, Barb! **

Chapter Five: _Le Bruant des Marais_

I was pulled further back into that dim alley, my vision of its opening, of my freedom, growing ever dimmer. I stretched my hand desperately in that direction as I struggled to pull away.

The wall that I suddenly found myself roughly held against was a slimy thing; dingy water seeped through my clothes and I gave a violent shiver, whether from the biting chill or the man that had captured me, I did not know.

"What's a sweet little trick like you doing out here so late? Need a protector, you do. No matter, I'm here now." He gave a hearty chuckle. Goose bumps settled over my flesh at the sound of that chill voice.

I tried to struggled, tried to hit and scratch and kick, but his feet came down hard on both of mine, holding them to the ground just as his legs pinned my legs against the wall. In my terror, I could hardly even feel the pain of it all. He bound both of my wrists with only one of his overlarge hands, holding them against the wall above me. I pushed, I shrieked in my utter fury, clamoring to get away, but I couldn't. I couldn't!

He buried his face in my hair, his nose crawling against my scalp as he inhaled my scent urgently. The exhalation of breath that exploded from his mouth was sour, stinking of spirits; the man was very obviously highly intoxicated. I gagged at the stink of it, choked on his utter foulness as he pulled back and peered down at me with a gap-toothed and yellowed grin, perversion overflowing from his coal dark eyes.

My hair tumbled down my shoulders in a cascade of rippling black as his other hand yanked it from its bun. His clammy hand grabbed a chunk at the base of my neck, jerking my face towards his.

And then his revolting lips landed on mine, forcing my lips apart with bruising ferocity, his tongue violating the inner recesses of my mouth, his stinking breath gagging me even more. I tried to bite him hard to get him to stop, but it only seemed to excite him more. His mouth pushed so hard against mine that my lips started to crack and bleed. I felt so dirty, so dirty I wanted to die for the shame of it all.

The injustice! The fury! My mind was filled with wrath, my body pumping with furious blood. A pounding strength seemed to surge through me, and my hands tore free from his just as he was trying to pull my skirts up, the ignoble beast!

My fingers clawed into the pallid flesh of his face and a shriek of pure monstrous fury tore free from my throat as I scratched and slapped, my hands growing bloody as little rivulets of his blood coursed down his face.

His knee came up into my stomach, and a great whoosh of released breath was all that pushed past my lips as I doubled over in pain. I grabbed my stomach, trying to breathe, tears filling my eyes, my lungs clawing desperately for air. I couldn't catch my breath; I'd never be able to breathe again! Oh, how it hurt!

But my foot was free! As his hands grabbed my own again, as my lungs tried desperately to draw air, I forced my knee up despite my agony, going for his groin. But I was too slow. His heel crushed against my toes even harder than before, ground against them until I almost screamed. His other hand came up to backhand my cheek, flinging my head back so that it crashed against the wall with a sickening crunch, and I felt the ooze of blood seep out into my hair. Little black spots danced before my eyes, blinding me; I was on the verge of blacking out entirely; only hazily could I make out his shadow before me as I groaned deep in my throat and peered blearily about. But at least I could breathe again. I sucked in glorious air, gulping upon it so loudly he gave another cold snicker.

I was so filled with hate in that moment. I hated myself; I hated men; I even hated Erik for leading me to this place, however unintentionally. I hated my father for leaving me in a harem; otherwise I would have never been in this horrendous mess. I hated him for not loving me enough.

There was only one person that I couldn't bear to hate, and that was my daughter. A bright picture of her face flashed before my blinded eyes, a vision of all that was good and true, with her beaming grin and childish innocence; the jewel of my heart.

In that final flash of anger and love and hope, I found one last reserve of strength. I bared my teeth at the man in a growl of loathing. And then I lunged forward, clamping my teeth over his nose, biting ferociously until I broke the skin and blood poured out. It flowed down my chin as I pushed him away from me, and in his shock he let me. My blood was pumping ever more violently with my fury, and my vision grew clear and true in an angry moment of rushing adrenaline as I spit the foul taste of his blood from my mouth and straight into his eyes.

He stumbled away from me, his cry of pain sounding pinched as he grabbed his nose and blinked his eyes to rid himself of the sting in them. Blood oozed between his fingers as his eyes rose to glare into mine. I backed away as he started for me, and hurriedly turned on my heel, running for the mouth of the alleyway.

_Freedom!_ So close I could almost taste it; so close I barely felt the agonized pain of my crushed toes. But I was so slow; it hurt so much to move. And then I felt a hand wrap around my ankle, jerking me off balance, twisting my foot until I fell to the ground.

A white-hot pain pulsed from my ankle, but I ignored it. My stomach throbbed with a terrible ache, but I barely noticed it. I struggled to crawl away from him, my fingers curling into the blanket of snow beneath me, but my strength was failing me, I had not a bit of fight left to give; and he kept his grip ever firm on me, pushing his body on top of mine, yanking my hair back until my head was brought up so high I was wincing in the pain.

And then I felt the chill of a blade settling against the exposed flesh of my throat, its lethal edge digging into the skin just below my ear, stinging fiercely as a trickle of blood oozed its way down my neck, sticky and hot.

My eyes turned reverently up to the night sky, the stars winking imperiously above me, shining like crystalline tears. Would they be the last things I saw?

My eyes slid shut against my own tears, and I waited for the blade to draw across my throat.

And then, abruptly, there was a great gasping sound, and the man over me was suddenly jerked away, the knife slipping from the grasp of his hand to fall into the snow, little drops of ruby red staining the white carpet. On the wall beside me, I glimpsed a tall shadow.

I tried to crawl away, but the last of my strength gave out. My ears detected the faint crunch of something breaking, bit by slow bit, and the sounds of a gurgling choke echoed behind me through the insidious night, but I hardly took note of it. I was drowning in a sea of ebony, my aching limbs giving out as I sank ever further beneath its surf, into the pits of icy dark. Something heavy fell to the ground, just before a pair of arms hoisted me into the air. And then my vision went black.

* * *

I awoke to the sensation of something very cold smoothing over my ankle. There was not a part of my body that remained untouched by an aching throb; the back of my head was pounding ferociously; my stomach ached badly; my neck stung; my poor foot was in such agonizing pain that the first sound I made was a mere piteous groan. 

"Where…where am…I?" I could hardly squeeze the breath from my lungs to speak, and so my words came out haltingly and barely audible, in an odd sort of strangled sound. My eyes couldn't seem to open all the way; I stared through narrowed slits, hardly able to see at all.

"You are safe. That is all that matters."

I felt a small smile stretch my swollen lips as I recognized that voice. "Erik." The word was more of a sigh than anything, and then I added, in a little voice that croaked pitifully, "How did you find me?"

"I knew you had been following me, you dim-witted fool. What possessed you to do such a thing? I should have left you there! Saving you was more than you deserved!"

My eyes snapped open at that to send him an icy glare. But he wasn't looking at me. His gaze was intent upon my ankle as he ran his fingers over it tenderly. I realized then that the coldness of his fingers was what had woken me.

It had been he who had saved me from that man in the alleyway. I swallowed thickly in the memory of hearing those strangled sounds from behind, and the dull thud of something hitting the ground; like the sound of a body falling after the victim had given its last breath. And through all that, I recalled that fatal sound of continuous cracking, echoing the pop of each bone that broke, and I gave a violent shudder of revulsion.

"Did you kill him?" My whisper was so small he probably hadn't heard it. But he looked up at me then, amber eyes meeting mine, before he nodded slowly. "Yes," he said simply and without a flicker of regret. "I did."

I wasn't sure what I felt about that. I suppose it was as much as that drunk had deserved, if not worse. But…but I did not want Erik to be a murderer for me.

My head flopped back onto the pillow as I pondered the situation, only vaguely noting that I was lying across his bed as he tended to my injuries. My hand went up to my forehead, and I realized with dull horror that he had wrapped a thick bandage around my head to cover the oozing cut on the back of it. What a sight I must look! As I turned my neck, my eyes searching in vain for a mirror, I felt the crinkle of another bandage on my neck, where the knife had cut me.

Erik glanced up at me. "None of your cuts were deep enough to require stitching. They will heal soon enough." I nodded, hardly hearing a word he said. I, Ria, with my clothes filthy and torn, and my hair a tangled mess, was wrapped up like a proper little mummy! A flush of humiliation spread across my cheeks.

Oh, but at least I could breathe again. My eyes slid shut and a little smile tugged at my lips as I sucked in a deep breath; and slowly, the tightness in my stomach eased as I drew in that great lungful of air, and then another. The pain was still there, but only faintly throbbing as I relaxed. I cleared my throat, trying to ease away the scratchy feeling that stuck there. Erik glanced at me distractedly, and then quite suddenly there was a glass of water in his hands, one that he had obviously placed at ready on the nightstand beside me. His hands assuredly raised my head, and he set the glass to my lips gently, tipping it back to allow fresh, cool water to slide down my throat. I murmured a soft sound of appreciation, relishing in the satisfaction my throat felt. And then his concentration went back to my feet, in the manner of a preoccupied doctor who could not bear to be bothered by the pathetic whims of his patients.

I glanced down to my feet to see a purplish bruise already spread across my toes, my brows raised in consternation at the fact that my shoes were gone. Erik seemed to read my mind. "I took the liberty of looking over your ankle while you were unconscious," his hands started to wrap a long length of white bandage around my ankle and foot as he spoke. "Your ankle was dislocated, but I have already readjusted it. I must admit; you are not half so objectionable to my company when you are asleep. I got the job done fairly easy," and he sent a wry look in my direction as I pursed my lips at him in a vague expression of annoyance. Erik looked away and continued with his serious litany of directions. "Rewrap the bandage often to be sure of pressure, and you must keep it iced and elevated to help with the swelling. You should keep off your feet as much as possible for a few days."

I noted dryly that he seemed unwilling to speak of anything other than my injuries.

Deftly, his hands wrapped the length of cloth, his fingers only barely grazing my heated skin. When he had finished, he moved his chair to sit at the head of the bed, his brow lowering as he stared at my face with a frown, his eyes sparking in anger.

A finger lightly traced the bone of my cheek as a regretful look crossed his face. "The bruise should be gone within a week, my dear," he said softly, and I supposed the backhand I had received earlier had been hard enough to leave a mark. I wanted desperately to press the palm of his hand against my cheek, but instead I stayed very still and it was only a moment before he hastily withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

"Is there anything else that hurts?"

A red flame spread across my cheeks. "I…I don't think you should worry about anything else. I'll be fine, r-really."

His eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"He kneed my-" I cleared my throat with embarrassment. "My stomach," I finished in whisper. There was no way he was checking that!

Erik paused for a moment, looking away from me. "I see," was all he uttered. He cleared his throat, not looking at me as he made his next request. "You could have a broken rib. You'll need to remove you corset so I can…so I can check." He seemed awfully interested in looking into the fire, over at the massive mahogany piano that lined a whole wall, anywhere but at me. The heat in my face grew even more pronounced.

"No, I don't think that's necessary, really. I'll be-"

Finally his amber eyes looked back into mine, silencing my protestation. I swallowed thickly, shaking my head in a weak sign of dissent. I didn't trust men, as a rule. And so I didn't trust him at all. Perhaps long ago I had been able to feel his touch and react with a smile and a sigh; perhaps in my dreams, when they remained innocent of the dark images that so often filled my mind, I could remember that touch and think upon it longingly. But in my waking moments, with reality very much upon myself, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I suddenly felt so ashamed. More ashamed than I'd ever felt.

It wasn't that I was afraid to let him see me; Allah knows, from all the immodest clothes I had to wear in all the years I lived in Persia, I was about as modest as a Siamese cat; the ones that keened and yowled as they twined through your legs with absolutely no shame.

But I didn't think I could bear to let him undress me, or even worse, to touch me.

"Ria." I shuddered at the sound of my name rolling off those lips. I stared in the opposite direction, hardly daring to glance his way. "I only want to make sure you are all right. There is nothing more I will take from you, I promise." He looked almost sad as he said those words, as if my mistrust had really stung him. And I wondered, with a pang of guilt, if he was referring to the night that we had first met; I wondered if he imagined that he had taken something from then that I had not intended him to take.

_Oh, Erik. You did not take anything from me. Everything that happened on that night, I gave to you freely, for the first and last time. _

And so finally I nodded. My fingers shook as I unbuttoned my blouse, but I couldn't lift myself up to get it off, so Erik raised me up and rested my shoulder against his chest, helping me slip the blouse off. His hands came around to help untie the corset, but I pushed his hands away in terror.

"Please," and I'm ashamed to admit that my voice was trembling. "Let me do it, please." And so he laid me back down as my fingers made shaky work of undoing the ties. I couldn't keep staring at him, seeing the wretchedness that spoke from his glowing eyes. I closed my eyes, and against their lids I saw so many different men, all of them removing my clothing, all of them taking my body.

When it was finally done, I simply laid there, unable to remove it. Erik had to do it himself, so gently I hardly noticed it. All that was left was my little chemise, and thank Allah I didn't have to take that off!

I waited for the hands to descend upon me, waited for the shudder of revulsion that would overtake me, but when his hands finally made contact with my body, so cold I could feel their chill through my chemise, I could hardly keep myself from arching into his touch.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, tried to ignore the aching pool of need that was settling into my abdomen, closed my mouth over the moan that desperately wanted to make voice. His fingers delicately smoothed over my ribcage, expertly feeling each bone. But his hands were shaking.

When I finally opened my eyes, he was staring intently at his hands, a frown of concentration on his lips. I wondered if he even knew that my heart was pounding at his touch, that my skin was aching for those hands to never stop. I wondered if this affected him at all.

It was like that first night, when his touch had brought that electric shock through my whole body, when I had only wished that he would never stop touching me. It was as if…as if all that other stuff, that dirty shameful stuff that had been done to me…had never even happened.

But not once did Erik take advantage of my helplessness. Instead, when he finished he laced my corset back up; he gave me back my dignity. And then he replaced the blouse. As his fingers finished with the buttons and moved to pull away, his expression oddly emotionless, as if that just made the whole thing easier, my hands reached out and grabbed his.

"Thank you, Erik…thank you for saving me," I whispered, staring into his face until his amber gaze finally lowered to mine. My lips parted at the smoldering look in his eyes, his control only barely suppressing whatever emotion it was that simmered within them.

And it seemed insufficient, suddenly, that I was thanking him for something so trivial as my pitiful existence, when there was so much else I wanted to give thanks to him for; so much else that I wanted to say.

Instead, I let go of his hands and he stood up quickly, walking away from me to gaze out a window in the kitchen. I took a moment to look about the room.

It was a very simple place, really. For a man that demanded such beauty and opulence, I was surprised that he was willing to live in the slums of Paris, in such a commonplace apartment.

It was small; whatever space there was had been taken up by bookshelves holding an array of books that seemed to come from every corner of the world. There was a large wooden wardrobe near them, and on the next wood paneled wall there was a fireplace, already lit and setting a golden glow around the room, with a little chaise lounge in front of it, alongside a thick black leather chair. A lithe-looking Siamese cat lay luxuriously across the chaise lounge, it's delicate tongue and paws put to use with a quiet, dignified grooming; a great diamond collar winked at me from the cat's neck, furthering the regality of that feline creature.

The bed I lay in was against the wall directly across from the fire, and I could feel the warmth of the flames taking away the chill in my bruised toes. Beside me was a door only slightly ajar, and I glimpsed a marble bath inside of it. But no mirror was in sight.

Next to what I assumed was the door to the hall outside the apartment was a great mahogany piano, its polished wood gleaming with a sleek sheen. Pieces of balled up paper littered the floor around it, and an ink bottle lay overturned on a thick rug, its contents staining the carpet a dark black.

To my right was a tidy little kitchen, with its little gas stove - a rare commodity - and cupboards and spotless sink. The table was a knotted plain wood, with only one chair. My cloak lay across the shabby-looking chair, along with the package of my Lady's dress. I thought sadly about what a lonely existence he must live, with no company, no friends, but for that simple little creature.

He stood straight-backed in front of the single kitchen window overlooking what I knew to be, after my long trek through the slums, a dirty street below, his hands crossed behind his back. An uncomfortable silence bore down upon us, interrupted only by the hiss and pop of the fire. I felt so suffocated, here in his lonely little room. All I wanted to do was leave without ever a glance behind. And then sleep; sleep and never ever wake up again.

I struggled to sit up, and as I did the room seemed to spin around me. I felt woozy and nauseous; I could hardly force myself to stand as my fingers clutched at my aching head and a low hiss pushed forth between my lips. I hobbled forward a few steps, and then inevitably tipped sideways for all my efforts.

Suddenly Erik was in front of me, his arms reaching out to catch me before I fell. I hadn't even seen him move from the window. I swallowed thickly, my eyes unable to move away from his as he righted me.

"Can I go home now, please?" my whisper was desperate and pitiful sounding. "I want…"_I want to see my daughter; _but this I could not say… "I want to go home." My eyes begged his, willed him to just let me go, to let me forget this place where it seemed only loneliness and longing were your companions; where questions remained unanswered and feelings unspoken.

At that moment, I couldn't have even forced myself to tell him about Mina. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt to prey upon my mind, that he could not be ready for such a thing so soon, when it seemed he had been alone for so long. And I suddenly felt so weary at the prospect of one day telling him. I didn't want to ever have to face it. Right then I just wanted time, lots and lots of time, to think this over and contemplate my decision before ever I said one word to him about it.

He looked down at me solemnly, and nodded once. I hoped my sigh of relief wasn't too terribly obvious. With never a word between us, he scooped up my cloak and placed it around my shoulders, and handed me the packaged dress I had been carrying; quite luckily it was undamaged.

There was no chance I could bear to fit my close-fitting shoes over those damaged little toes of mine, let alone fit my bandaged feet inside. So Erik provided me with a pair of his own boots; they were a great deal larger than my shoes. He eased my feet in them as gently as he could, though I still winced at the jarring pain. And actually, it wasn't too terribly bad; he had tucked bits of cloth in the toe of the boot, so as to pad my protesting toes. At least this way I'd be able to walk myself, rather than be carried.

I wanted to walk out of that room with dignity; with my shoulders straight and my head high; with not a stagger to my steps. But it was not to be so. I stumbled towards the door, and in the end, he had to put his arms around me for support, and I had to likewise put mine around that thin, and yet surprisingly firm and strong, frame of his. Together we made me our way out of the room, and out of the building entirely, after a set of stairs that made me cold with clammy sweat and gasping for air at the effort of climbing down. I glanced behind me, to read the name of the building he lived in. '_Le Bruant des Marais_'. I stuffed the words into my mind, repeating them over and over again, so as not to forget.

This farewell would not be forever. I would come back; I would tell Erik about Mina, I would. I only hoped that someday soon I could be ready to do so…and him, too.

Soon enough Erik hailed a passing hansom, handing the rather old and sickly looking cab driver enough francs to see me home as I settled myself into the seat, easing my booted feet up onto the bench in front of me with a great sigh of appreciation. It felt wondrous good to be sitting down again.

I stuck my head out of the curtained window, calling softly to Erik before he decided to slip away unnoticed. Surely he had been tested to his ends today, and I had no doubt he longed for the quiet solitude of his room.

He stepped up only slightly closer upon my call, his eyes unwavering from mine. I tugged at my lip, aching to tell him my secrets, aching to touch him and kiss him as I had once done so long ago. _Aching_. And for a moment, I saw his eyes drag down to my lips, and all time seemed to stop moving. I couldn't even breathe, and I had a vague suspicion that neither could he.

And in that moment, with that tiny little flicker of feeling in those golden eyes as they seemed to devour my lips with their burning expression, I knew that despite Erik's emotionless display earlier, he had not forgotten our past. And I thought that maybe…maybe there was a fighting chance for the two of us, and even more important, a chance for our daughter.

I cleared my throat, and his eyes hastily returned to mine. If it weren't for the darkness that surrounded us, I would have sworn a little red patch of color appeared on his visible cheek. My lips tipped up slightly.

"May I…May I come back, sometime soon?" my whisper was so soft; it seemed to me that the wind would carry it away before he even heard it. My gaze dropped down to stare towards the ground at his feet, and this time it was I who was blushing.

And then I glanced up just in time to see something that absolutely made my heart come to a wrenching halt, and then flutter wildly up to stick in my throat as if with the wings of a wily bird, escaping the bars of its imprisoning cage. A small smile, curving up the corners of his lips to lessen the severity of his face; a small smile to bring the blood blooming across my cheeks and to soon enough start my heart pounding ever faster in my chest; a small smile that suddenly matched my own, for when I saw the sweetness of that smile, I could not help but return it.

He gave a slight nod, and then he was gone. My arms stayed folded across the ledge of the window as I looked out towards the passing streets. The sky had darkened even further since I had been in Erik's room, and snow dusted through the air and drifted slowly to the ground, the little flecks of white beautiful in the tenebrosity of night. Against the darkness of the sky, the snowflakes swirled gracefully through the air like delicate dancers in an exotic ballet. A dreamy smile crossed my face as my eyes gazed out with starry expression.

"Farewell," I whispered to myself in the quiet gloom of the cab. "_Le fantôme_."

* * *

**An extra tidbit, _Le Bruant des Marais _means "The Swamp Sparrow".**


	6. Chapter Six: The Storm

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, guys! Terrible situation as it was, that last chapter was a lot of fun writing when Ria was being attacked. Glad you enjoyed! And Adison! I'm so glad to hear from you! It's been so long, chickadee! SQUEE!**

**Anyway, you guys are going to notice another change in this chapter (I can't help pointing them out, it's just so much fun!). Prior to this rewrite, I was writing Erik's POV in 1****st**** person, just as I was Ria's. I have now switched his POV to 3****rd**** person, and I am SO glad I did. This is the first chapter that you guys get a little perspective into his head, and I must say it's some of the best work I feel I've ever done, and it would have been nowhere near as good in 1****st**** person. Hope you enjoy! And please continue to review. How I love reviews. **

**Also, something happens in this chapter that was originally in Erik's POV, and is now switched to Ria's POV. I was curious to see how it would turn out in hers, and I'm quite glad I did, because I love it even better with her.**

**But enough with this author's note! It's too long already! Another huge shout-out to beta Barb! She gave me several ideas for future chapters with her suggestions on editing this chapter. I'm much obliged to her. ::smooch:: **

Chapter Six: The Storm

It was several days before I could make my own way around the estate without hobbling about too much on my damaged feet. After a week, the bruises were almost completely gone, and all my scrapes and cuts were healing quite nicely. At least it didn't hurt to wash my hair anymore; the stinging pain of soap and nails scrubbing against _that_ cut had been almost unbearable. But it had certainly healed fast enough.

That first night had been absolutely dreadful. I had awoken with profound terror-filled confusion from one of my many nightmares and found myself in the grip of a terrible fever. I shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering, lips trembling, feeling frozen to the absolute bone. But my skin, they said, was hot to touch, burning despite my awful chill; my cheeks flushed, my eyes bright and feverish.

I vaguely recalled that night. Through the haze of my mind I could remember that shadows had seemed to surround me throughout, that everything seemed to move and echo so loudly that my head ached and my eyes closed to escape the spinning walls that tilted around me. The pain of my injuries seemed all the worse, and I remembered I had been crying most of the night, hanging on to Lorraine's hand between periods of retching, as she shushed me and tried to make me sleep. The terror of my dreams had never been more frightful than they were that night. And through it all, a terrible, aching cough that seemed to rip my chest apart each time I tried to breathe.

But the next day I had, miraculously, woken to find that the fever had broken. Albeit I was still dizzy, too light-headed to even consider getting out of bed, and I still coughed seemingly nonstop, I had at least stopped retching and shaking so much. Medicines were constantly stuffed past my lips, making their bitter path down a tender throat. And by the next day, I was able to stand, though walking proved difficult with my feet. The doctor said it had been a powerful but exceedingly quick illness; said I had been very lucky indeed that it hadn't lasted longer.

The cough that I had sustained from my trek through snow and bitter chill had finally subsided a bit, though my chest and throat still ached most of the time. Within a week and a half, Lorraine declared herself satisfied and ceased her constant watch over me; she'd been keeping a close eye on me ever since I'd come back that night, a sick and bleeding mess, without even the slightest explanation. How could I explain, after all? What would I say?

'_Oh, Lorraine, do not worry yourself so! I was only almost killed, nothing dramatic. The Phantom of the Opera himself rescued me and tended to my injuries. Did I tell you that I was once his slave in Persia? Why, I didn't? Oh, whatever is the matter with me! The man is Mina's father!'_

Obviously, this would not do.

Mina was even worse, exhaustingly so. She'd sulk and grow angry with anyone nearby every time I wasn't in her sight, and had taken to following me around the house everywhere I went. I allowed it at first, for after all her presence was very comforting to me after such an ordeal, but eventually I had to tell her that work needed to be done and she'd better go on and amuse herself. I think I spoke rather more sharply than I should have, for I'd seen that telltale sign of lower lip jutting out just before she'd dashed away.

And so life went on. Most of my time was spent on my chores, or otherwise playing with Mina. Through the years I had been teaching Mina to speak, read, and write in the tongue of our native language; despite my unconquerable fear of my homeland, I could not help but to wish for my daughter to have a firm grasp the language I grew up speaking. And grasp it she did! I had taken the liberty of buying several books written in our tongue, little Arabic tales of my homeland, so that some days we might sit in the library, and I would listen with pride as her sweet voice sounded out the words she read with practiced perfection. Sometimes we'd sing little songs to each other as I gave her a bath, her voice far superior to mine of course, for the girl sang as if possessed by angels, with a soft and lilting voice of innocence that seemed to echo the deepest longings of my heart. Or we'd just snuggle up with each other in silence, both of us drawn inward to our most secret thoughts.

Mine were increasingly becoming thoughts of Erik. I tried to stop thinking about him so, tried to get on with what must be done before I even thought about going to see him. But still, I couldn't help it. I was but two and twenty years old after all, and lonely at that. It seemed my every thought was filled with that rare smile of his, the way you could get lost in the golden recesses of those glowing eyes; the touch of his long and slender hands, so cold, so graceful, that seemed to bring my whole being to life.

I longed so badly to see him. As my bruises faded away to nothing, as not a blemish remained to mar my features but for a tiny scar that stretched out from behind my ear, I thought _'now would be a good time to see him. It's been long enough. Maybe he's ready to accept a little company'_. But it was still uncomfortable to walk with my sore ankle. It was healing, but slowly.

So I used that as my excuse. No matter how much I wished to see him, I could not quite conquer my fear of going back to face that forlorn place, where a deserted man waited. What would I say? What _could _I say?

Another day went by. And another. Winter was steadily drawing to a close, and the days grew slightly, ever so slightly, warmer. Snow had finally melted, leaving behind small patches of white only here and there, clumped between thick branches, or at the feet of a few straggling plants that had dared to lift their face to the sun. There was still a chill in the air, but it was no longer so unbearable.

It happened that I found myself sitting on a small wooden bench swing hanging beneath a many-leafed tree one day, a refreshing breeze blowing my loose hair across my face, one of my legs swinging beneath me as I stared up through the complexity of branches. Vaguely, I saw the dark clouds that were spilling across the sky with ever-increasing rapidity, noticed the gloom in the air, but I ignored it. I was taking the morning off, the _whole _morning, and had allowed myself to wake much later than usual. When I had awoken with a lazy stretch and contented smile on my yawning features, my sigh had been the most relaxed and happiest I had heard in days.

Maybe it was that saucy laziness that was taking control of me. Maybe it was the way my thoughts seemed to want to think about one thing today, and one thing only, and the way my eyes were growing hooded as I stared about languidly with a smile, a slow, dangerous, sly smile tugging up at a corner of my lips.

Maybe it was a lot of things. But suddenly, irrevocably, I wanted to see Erik. And today…well, today nothing would stop me. Not cowardice, not work, and absolutely no indecision whatsoever. With a satisfying stretch, I got to my feet and made my way inside to get myself looking…more presentable.

* * *

A pair of thin hands pounded down maliciously onto the smooth white keys beneath them in a single note of deepest and most outrageous anger. The sound hung in the air, the noise of utmost rage slowly fading into an ominous silence, with but an echo still to linger. They stilled for a moment, waiting in the fashion of a cat playing with a mouse, before the inevitable fury descended once more. The pale fingers flew across the keys with marvelous aptitude, deftly playing those sounds of wrath with a cunning succession. 

It was frightful music; music not fit to grace the ears of any civilized human being; music to put gut-wrenching terror right into your very soul. And yet…through all its anger, through all its ever increasing and horrifying ferocity, there was a dangerous sort of beauty about it all; something to make you tremble in fear and rapture all at once. It was menacing; it was clever; it was dazzling; it was absolutely the work of a genius.

The man playing those notes was indeed a piece of work himself. If the music hadn't scared you away by then, the man himself surely would have. He was like a tall shadow of absolute darkness, his frame as thin as a wraith. His fingers were of abnormal length, almost resembling mere bones rather than a flesh and blood hand. You only had to look at them to feel a chill run down your back; those were hands of horrendous deeds. Never mind the way that they stroked those keys in the utmost throes of passion, those hands could do unspeakable things.

But fearsome though all that was, there was one thing that was more terrifying than all the rest. One thing that could strike fear more sufficiently than any other horror in the world. And that was his face.

Where a nose should have been, there was none. Where flesh should have appeared pink, healthy, normal, there was only a yellowish stretch of skin that seemed of papery substance, with every blue vein visible and pulsing beneath. One eye socket was sunken in as if the face was truly the resemblance of a skull, cheekbone protruding against the stretched skin, each bone jutting out starkly. His ghastly appearance could scare a man to death; it was the face of a demon.

And yet that was only half. For the other side of his face, despite the small stretch of scar across temple, was normal and healthy, if not rather forbidding in expression. His shapely brow was smooth and dark, arched above a perfect eye in an expression of arrogant disdain. His lips were thin, set in a grim line of severity, and yet they had a pleasant sort of curve to them, if one could goad the unyielding shape into something more agreeable. The skin on that side was pale as snow, smooth and unlined. You could see how delicately sculpted the shape of his face was from that side, cheekbone high, chin slightly pointed. He wasn't the most handsome man, certainly not if the deformed side of his face was taken into consideration. And yet, there was a pleasing uniqueness about that other side, what with his haughty brow and expression of superiority; an attractiveness that seemed altogether based on power and darkness and mystery; a certain charisma that remained vague, hard to place, elusive…

Of course, not quite at that moment. The expression on his unmasked face was filled with such anger, such fury-induced passion, it seemed as if he were a living corpse of hatred. How his lips frowned; how his brows lowered; how those luminous eyes of gold flashed and glowered with his utter outrage!

Oh yes, Erik was furious. It was strange, really. In all the time since his debacle with Christine, it seemed as if his music had deserted him. His muse was gone, and he could no longer write. Weeks he spent, trying to compose and failing utterly. And he had feared what had always seemed the unthinkable: that he would never again be able to play or enjoy music. The very idea of that gave him the deepest of pains; that the one last thing in the world that could fill him with happiness, if only for a little while, had been taken away from him as well.

And then all it took was for _her_ to come back; and suddenly, inspiration! He played music of urgent desire, filled with desperate longing and release. He played music so unbelievably sweet, so heroic, so incredibly thankful, it could have brought any person to their knees in tears. Every nuance of sound seemed to echo her name, seemed to play each flutter of her lashes, each delicate sway of her body, graceful step by graceful step that she took.

_Ria_.

And then there was this music. There was no denying the anger in it, no excuse for the temper that had taken hold and would not release him. It had been too long, too much time. And she had not come back.

He pulled his fingers away, halting that descent of madness that had taken over him and his music. With a heavy sigh, he retreated to sit in his leather chair before the fire, sinking back into the pliable cushion with a deep and heartfelt groan. His arms drifted over each side of the armrests, hands curled close to the floor, relaxed despite the thoughts that still occupied his mind.

Erik couldn't decide who he thought of more these days, Christine or Ria. Odd, really, that two women so completely different should fight for attention in his mind on a daily basis. There was not one thing about either of them that was in any way similar. Complete opposites, they were. Where Christine was rather small, a dainty curve here and there, Ria had a more generous sort of figure. The long and slender face with the delicate cheekbones and the coal lashes; shapely legs and curving hips; ample breasts that led down to a soft stomach. She walked with easy grace and unfailing confidence, it seemed.

And while Christine had been meek with her heartrending abilities of voice, a fragile creature that frightened easily in his presence, despite her unwavering devotion in the end that had saved countless lives, Ria was again different. She was strong and brave, and stubborn enough to keep on going after all she'd been through. She had a temper that refused to give, even in the company of his own.

The innocent Scandinavian girl of delicate prettiness, or the exotic Persian with her beauty and unnatural grace. Deep down, he thought he knew which one he loved above all else, which one had inspired him to that one great peak of glorious music and in the end, that moment of redemption.

And yet, despite that, Erik was shocked to find that he so depended on Ria's return that he had counted each aching, lonely day and every single empty night. Days upon days passed, until he started to believe that she had changed her mind, and he would not see her again.

He remembered a time before Christine, when it seemed his thoughts were constantly occupied by Ria. And even at the times when his mind had been consumed by music, or by the development of the opera house he had built with his own hands, she stayed there distantly in the back of his mind, ever beyond his reach, as if taunting him. His memory of her was made up with the flutter of her lashes, dark against her skin; with the soft curve of her sweet lips, inviting and of deepest red; with the whispering sighs she had made under her breath and the instinctive arching of her back; with every moment that she had been his, if only for a single night.

But it didn't matter after all. What could he possibly need her for? Hadn't it been proven to him time and time again that only death and betrayal and sorrow resulted from his attempts of comradeship with other people? Hadn't it always been the truth that he must walk this world alone, with neither friend nor lover?

Besides, there was not a person in the world that could take Christine's place. Nothing could replace the sweet lilt of her voice, raised in glorious song with his, nor the beauty of her sea-blue eyes that seemed to hold the expression of a true angel.

No, he was better off without her; without either of them. Better that Ria didn't return, and didn't try to get close to him. Better that he stayed alone, as a monster rightly should. So he told himself, and it was true enough. So forget that girl, with her midnight silken hair and her eyes of darkest coal, whose opaque depths seemed to reflect such pain and sorrow. Forget how badly he wanted her, and how very much he wished she had come back.

A small bundle of fur leaped into his lap, startling him from his thoughts. Erik glanced down with a vague smile pulling at the corner of his lips, his fingers moving of their own accord to stroke along Ayesha's back. Her lithe little figure arched up beneath his hand as her tail curled through the air, and from her bejeweled throat she released a keening mew of sound, followed by a delicate purr of ecstasy as she nuzzled the top of her head against his knuckles, demanding her own attention. Little Ayesha's eyes were half shut as Erik submitted to her will with a deep chuckle, one long finger making an arching path down along her spine and back up to rub her dark ears.

His luminous eyes moved towards the window as his hands continued to make easy work of her contentment, and then he stood with Ayesha still cradled in his arms, rising like a great, unfurling shadow from his chair at the loud clap of thunder that echoed from outside, striding closer to gaze at the mass of graying clouds burgeoning across the sky. A vague glow pierced dimly through the haze; the sun suffocated behind the endless streak of gray.

He glanced down with disinterest towards the grimy streets below as he petted Ayesha, her own eyes glaring in contempt at the outside world; a delicate raise of brow graced his face as he watched the hustle of people scurrying for cover before the storm hit. A flash of lightning lit up the sky briefly, its illumination reflecting on the one person that remained standing still, lingering below his window.

A sort of strangled sound stirred in his throat as he gazed down in disbelief, distractedly allowing Ayesha to fall from his arms and land gracefully on her feet; she yowled in unabashed objection, twining between his legs and glowering up at him, but he took no notice; his gold eyes only narrowed to look upon the dark features of that woman below. Her mass of black hair was hanging down past her shoulders; the dark, curling locks blowing around her face as the wind plucked at hair and dress. A pair of ebon eyes stared up towards his window, squinting through the strands of hair that whipped her face. Her arms crossed over her front against the bite of air that pushed against her.

The woman was Ria.

She stood a moment longer, apparent indecision creasing her brows. And then, abruptly, she started to walk away, heading back towards the cab that she had obviously ridden in to get here, her steps hurried so as to catch up with it.

It seemed without a second thought his mask was secured onto his face, his hair brushed back in an attempt of swift grooming, his heavy cloak pinned on as he hastened from his room. He wasn't sure why he would decide to go after her, or what he hoped to achieve, but at that moment it seemed important that she not get away.

* * *

I was a fool. Pure and simple, an idiot who had decided to brave the storm in hopes of seeing Erik. And now that I was here, I backed out in cowardice yet again. The wind pulled at my skirts, forcing my steps into awkward little shuffles as I walked against the blustery weather and away from Erik's home, blessedly relieved that I had paid to cab driver extra so as to wait for my return. I ducked my head, closing my eyes against the sting of chill air, my mouth screwed up in a line of determination.

A gust of heavy wind forced me to stagger to the side, my hand flying out to cling on to the nearest thing, desperately trying to steady myself. I fell against something that staggered back at my weight, and a black cloak billowed up around me, warming me from the chill. Little drops of rain were starting to fall, but so far only a few.

I glanced up towards the sky, but before I truly took in the sea of black that roiled above me, where lightning streaked and ominous rolls of thunder passed by, my eyes caught hold of something gold above me. My gaze drifted over to see what I had fallen against, and I pulled myself away quickly as I realized…it was Erik.

His hand wrapped around my wrist with more than a little severity, and he shouted something to me through the gust of howling winds, but I only vaguely heard his voice, as the air around us seemed to swallow up his words with a hungry appetite. I shook my head in confusion, pointing towards the door of his apartment building to show that we needed shelter, and fast.

It seemed that was what he had been trying to tell me, for he pulled me after him just as I was starting to point, his cloak billowing around his form to enhance the dark shadow that fell upon us. My feet slipped on a small puddle, and my steps faltered as I tried to stumble after Erik, awkward and slow.

His arms went around my waist to tow me after him, and then his eyes caught mine and for a moment, we froze. The air seemed to still, the small drops of rain ceased, and silence prevailed around us. Our eyes locked together, my hands grasped his arms in effort to steady myself, and his hands tightened around my waist.

And then the loudest din I'd ever heard exploded around us. Sheets of rain pelted against us, gusting through a suddenly relentless force of wind, stabbing at our flesh and soaking our clothes. It was as if a waterfall was crashing down upon us with deafening sound and force, cutting us off from the entire world. Water streamed down my face and into my eyes, and I blinked quickly as I stared up at Erik, watched the clumps of water that gathered in his lashes and ran down between mask and face, watched his lips as they parted and took a deep, courageous breath.

I didn't even realize what was happening as his face lowered towards mine, hardly even noticed the way I raised myself up on my toes instinctively and how my hands were clutching his arms ferociously. I was so confused by the storm that gusted around us, and the storm that suddenly resided in my stomach, that when it happened I froze with the shock of it.

It was just so sudden. One moment, we were gazing each other through the torrent of wind and rain as if nothing else existed, and then quite suddenly his lips landed on mine.

The crushing force of his lips was desperate with need and longing. I couldn't think, I couldn't hear, I had no clue what to do. But then suddenly instinct took over, and my lips blossomed open beneath his, and the strength of our kiss stole my breath. Our lips clung and tasted, clung and tasted, over and over, crushed together in endless passion. My arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my hands tangling in his drenched hair just as his did mine. Despite the torrent of water that cascaded down on us, heat was rising over me, flushing my cheeks and brightening my tightly-shut eyes; welled inside my body like a blazing fire that inflamed my lower abdomen; left me a shaking wreck with the force of passion that had taken over me.

Those flames inside of me seemed to burn and burn until I thought I might die from the heat that made me ache so badly. I drew one of my legs around his, crushed my body against his in a desperate attempt of satiation. A little strangled sound pushed past his lips against mine as one of his hands lowered to the small of my back, holding me against him with an iron grip.

Our lips seemed to move more brutally as this aching desire overtook us, making the pair of us shiver and utter small sounds hardly decipherable as that deep inferno smoldered inside of us. The clenching pain in my stomach coiled tighter and tighter, begging for release.

Lightning seemed to flash all around us, and electric currents were running up and down my shivering body; energy pulsed through my veins; my heart pounded until I thought it might explode; rain beat down against us as hands tried to clutch through the drenched clothes; Erik's lips curved against mine, so desperately, and yet in a way, he did it so sweetly, with his breath falling against my lips and one of his hands suddenly resting on my cheek, stroking the chilled skin.

And through all that never-ending, pent up desire and passion, a feeling of sweet warmth encompassed me, filling me to the brim with such contentment and euphoria. It seemed perhaps my dreams weren't so precise after all; apparently I had not quite accurately remembered the feel of Erik's lips against mine, how they curved and molded, and the way his hands seemed to ignite my body aflame as he stroked my cheeks and down my neck, and that little noise that he made in the back of his throat that seemed to make me want to hold him all the tighter.

It felt good, so good, and it just seemed so…so _right_; as if our souls bled into the other at the absolute perfect match of our kiss. Even as our lips drew apart with a regretful slowness, as if it was just too impossible to stop, I couldn't catch my breath, couldn't seem to release my hold around his shoulders. And when my hands finally did slide away, they were shaking.

Without a doubt in my mind, I knew that something profound had changed between us, something that forever altered my path to go down a completely different road than the one I had been traveling on. A moment that seemed as monumental as star-spangled night suddenly turning into the bright of day.

I couldn't bear to look at him. Despite my past and our own history together, an unbelievable shyness overtook me, and my eyes stared down determinedly at the puddles of water gathering around our feet. I jumped as he cleared his throat, and peeked up from beneath my lowered lashes to see that he wasn't looking at me, either.

It seemed the weather had finished with its wild frenzy; it died down bit by bit, until only a hazy, sprinkling mist was left. The wind decreased, but only barely. Strands of my soaked hair flew into my face, and I flicked them aside with annoyance. With a brave glance in Erik's direction, my lips parted to speak…

And then I was mercifully saved from making a response by the cab driver.

"Pardon, Madame," the driver said in an impatient voice, while his horse whickered and stamped a hoof with its own mark of restlessness. "But you were wanting a ride back, _oui_?"

I sent him a hasty look of mortified apology, and looked back at Erik; he was frowning with an expression of severe disapproval in the driver's direction. A vague smile tried to tug at my lips.

"Would you like to accompany me back to my Lady's estates, Erik?" I twisted my fingers behind my back and glanced shyly away, my feet slowly backing towards the cab.

And in the end that is exactly what happened; both of us seated inside the sheltered offering of the cab; I, with my clothes soaked through and through with water, and Erik likewise just as sodden as me, with a look on his face that attested to an uncertainty that he was not precisely sure of how he had gotten into this predicament.

* * *

**So, what did you guys thinks? Hmm?** **Still more nonverbal action, I know, but hey...this is nonverbal of another sort. One that is entirely acceptable, in my opinion. ::wink::**


	7. Chapter Seven: Le Fantôme

**A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry this chapter is so late! This chapter has been rewritten so many times I think I know it word for word by memory. And watch; they'll STILL be mistakes! **

**I was in the hospital, guys. Had a gall bladder attack. They sent me home after a couple days without surgery the first time, but I was back again with pain the next week so they finally did the surgery, and took out my gall bladder. Today is the first day I've been able to get on the computer for any length of time. So please forgive me for the delay. It was with good reason this time! **

**And enjoy this chapter. It's one of my favorites. Finally, some VERBAL action. And this chapter is nothing but Erik and Ria. **

**Thanks to Barb for her awesome editing! She gave me a really good idea for something Ria says that's really mean, but honestly, it's quite true (keep your eye out for it, it's about the Khanum and our oh-so-loveable Erik). **

Chapter Seven: _Le Fantôme_

The cab jostled tipsily as the driver started it off, and a few smatterings of rain drops still dripped down from the benevolent sky above, pattering against the roof; the muffled sound seemed to echo infinitely inside the small space of the cab, and despite how quiet it probably truly was, to me it seemed impossibly loud in the hushed awkwardness that hovered around Erik and me.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows in my lap, fidgeting uncomfortably in the wet confines of my skirts. Water still dripped from the loose ends of my hair, and with a sigh I sat back again, my hands lifting to wring what they could from the mass of locks atop my head; then passed over my face in a useless attempt to wipe the water off that still clung and rolled there.

A square of linen, white and fresh, flashed before my eyes; I glanced up to see Erik holding it out towards me, and stared in unveiled surprise at the fact that it was still dry. I threw him a quizzical look, but took the practical handkerchief all the same, blotting my face thankfully and imagining all the things I wouldn't give to have a mirror at hand!

Passing the dampening cloth down my throat and across the top of my chest, I noticed Erik glance politely away from me, his gaze settling listlessly on the streets outside; I smiled wryly and settled my hands to rest in my lap, fingers twiddling idly with the cloth between them.

I cleared my throat, staring down at my restless hands and smiling a small grin of delight; my cheeks, I knew, were still heated to a rosy red, and my stomach couldn't seem to settle through all my sudden and surprising gaiety. I realized, somewhat vaguely, that this was a rare moment indeed; so few were the times that I ever felt such a happiness seeping through to my often chilled heart, to warm myself to absolute cheer and take away the lonely feeling that dragged out my long days.

Absently, I tapped my foot against the floor, pillowing my head on an arm that rested on the wall of the cab, my eyes hooded as I gazed lazily at Erik. Contentment stole my attentiveness, and I watched him shamelessly for several moments before I realized that he was staring at me in polite curiosity, his dark brow raised with question, his lips tugged slightly down in a cautious frown.

Biting the smiling flesh of my bottom lip, I glanced away; but looking at him, seeing the stark difference of mask against pale skin, I was suddenly reminded of the newspaper I had read so many weeks ago. Since he had saved me that night, I had hardly even given it a moments consideration; had forgotten how badly I wanted to speak with him about it.

Perhaps I wanted just to get his perspective; or perhaps I desperately needed to be told that maybe there had been great reasons, infinitely deeper reasons, for why he had acted and done as he had. I wanted reassurance, after all, that I wouldn't be subjecting my daughter to a man still intent on hurting and killing others. But then maybe, deep down what I really wanted to hear was that…it hadn't been him. And worse yet, I knew that he could not tell me so.

But suddenly the questions relentlessly stirred in my mind, questions I was desperate to ask and set aside. If ever there was a time that he might confide in me, it would be now, after the moment of impassioned insanity we had just shared. As the cab swayed and tipped its way down the cobblestone streets, I swallowed thickly, and my gaze turned to stare sightlessly out the window.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?" His tone, even on such a noncommittal response, sounded bored, and he stared just as I did out the window, with eyes glazed over and a chin that rested indolently in the palm of his hand.

"There's something I've been wanting to ask you." I said this as smoothly and confidently as I could, though my heart beat quicker and my fingers shook at the confrontation that would no doubt arise.

He glanced at me with uninterested, vague curiosity and away again, the side of his uncovered face as forbidding as always. My fingers started to tug restlessly at the little square of linen again, and I pulled a face at the water that dripped down my legs and off of my skirt to form a small puddle at my tapping feet. There was no easy way to voice the questions I needed to ask.

"I read a news article several weeks ago," I began quickly, lest I lose all my courage. Erik's face remained blank as I took another deep breath. "It said…it spoke of some tragic things that befell the opera house a year ago…something about a chandelier crash, and a woman dying, and…and…" my voice was growing ever quieter as a muscle started to tic on Erik's jaw line. "A girl was kidnapped," I finished in barely more than a whisper of tremulous uncertainty.

There was an endless pause of deathly quiet; I stared at my hands without even seeing them, terrified, so terrified, of how Erik would react.

"I see," he hissed, his tone pitched low in an ominous whisper, his hand falling from under his chin to clench into a tight fist by his side. "And what is it you wish to discuss? How I went about kidnapping the girl? How I nearly drowned two people in my quest to have her? No? Perhaps you want to discuss the other action I would have taken, had my demands been denied." Barely a pause went by as I stared at him in silent horror. "I would have blown up the entire Palais Garnier, myself included! Do you not agree that would have been quite a jolly and fitting end to the whole fiasco?"

A strangled sound made voice in my throat as my chin dipped down, my eyes clenching shut in heavy regret. I tried a brave attempt at looking unaffected, and failed miserably. I couldn't help but to shiver at his words, and there was not a thing I could say to him.

"Oh, come now. I was under the impression that you wanted to discuss something with me," his tone grew increasingly sarcastic. "No more questions? What, did you expect me to deny it, say it wasn't me? Hardly."

I cleared my throat, glaring at him in hopes of silencing his tirade. And it worked; his lips thinned to a grim line of anger, but he fell quiet. His eyes, however, still spoke their fury to me. I looked away again.

"Why didn't you blow up the opera house?" I asked softly, hardly able to coax my throat to voice the question. He looked away then, and did not answer. The cab jostled dangerously as it thumped over an uneven patch of road, and I jumped nervously in my seat.

"Erik?"

"Why? What business is it of yours?"

Words rose up in my throat, unbidden. "Because-" _because my daughter is also your daughter_, I had been about to say. I bit back the words, scowling ferociously at how I'd almost slipped. Of course it was my business…but I could not tell him this.

"I suppose it's not," I countered grudgingly, crossing my arms and frowning. "But all the same, I would very much like to understand."

He gave a mocking little laugh; it sent chills down my spine. "You know, for a slave, you're highly inquisitive about things you should leave well enough alone."

My scowl deepened, and little furrows appeared between my brows. The icy look I sent him was chill with outrage. "You will not refer to me that way again, Erik. I am no longer a royal _plaything_." The sound of my voice was a dangerous hiss.

"You seemed quite at ease with that term when I first met you in Persia."

I sat forward abruptly, letting the little piece of cloth slip down until it fell into the small puddle of water at my feet, anger pumping through my veins as I glared him and habitually slipped into my native Persian tongue to growl ferociously, "I was never _at ease _with the term! You think I _wanted_ to do the things that I did? Do you think I actually enjoyed being passed from master to master, letting them do the things they did, unable to stop it, unable to say I didn't want to do those things anymore?" My voice broke and I looked away. "I still have nightmares from those times Erik, and you think to cruelly bring them up and shove them in my face?"

He wasn't looking at me anymore, which only seemed to fuel my anger. How dare he just ignore what I was saying! Right then, I didn't care how cruel my next words were, for surely he, a man more infinitely heartless than any I had ever known, would feel no pain from it.

"It doesn't surprise me really, that you've done the things you've done,_ Monsieur le Fantôme_," my tone dripped with absolute disdain. "Kidnapping innocent girls and…and murder and torture. You don't feel remorse or guilt, because you have not a scrap of human feeling in you."

He leaned forward too, then, his face but a scant inch away from my own. "At least I have enough pride not to debase myself such as you have. Who but a whore would allow herself to be used thus?"

The fury those words induced upon me could not have been controlled even had I tried to. A blind rage fell upon me; my vision went red with my terrific anger, and I slapped him. With a hand that shook with outrage, I struck him hard across his uncovered cheek, and watched with a sort of vague satisfaction as a red imprint of my palm formed across his pale cheek. He turned to face me, blind malevolence glinting from his gold eyes, his lips turned down in a furious scowl, as his hand grabbed my wrist in a painful grasp.

"A bit ironic coming from you, is it not, Erik?" I gasped the words out between clenched teeth, trying to ignore the aching throb I felt in my wrist, my eyes glaring without hesitation straight into those wrathful golden eyes. "The Khanum's own _Angel of Doom_, at her beck and call every day. What were you but a _whore_ for her?"

And shockingly, the hand that gripped my wrist let go; I had to resist the urge to hold the hurting limb to myself, like a dog that licks its wounds. But right then, despite my absolute triumph in hurting him so, I'd never felt more ashamed in my life. His words made me feel dirty and used. He couldn't have hurt me worse if he had hit me himself. I turned away to hide the sheen of tears I felt stinging in my eyes, blinking rapidly to keep myself from spiraling out of control in my humiliation and misery. I could not let him see my tears.

"It was all I knew, Erik," I whispered, cringing at the way my voice trembled with the unshed tears. "I'd been trained to do those things when I was only a little girl. I've known all my life that my father left me at the harem, unwanted and unloved. I've known, always, that I was worth nothing more." My eyes made a timid glance in his direction; he looked only slightly less angry than before, though his lips still scowled and his eyes still glared ferociously at me. I sank back into my seat, turning my face to the side and ducking my chin down low; I curled my arms around myself as if to fend off the sudden icy coldness I felt clutching at me, inside to out.

"And yet even that I couldn't get right. None of the other girls minded their duties as much as I. While my eyes dimmed with bitter hopelessness, the others stayed lively and beautiful. None of them befriended me, seeing perhaps how badly I failed to accept my life; maybe they were afraid they'd catch my misery, as if I were diseased or some nonsense. I was alone, always, and miserable until I found the courage to leave."

There was an awkward pause, and then I heard the slight rustle of a cloak slide across the floor beneath as Erik lifted an arm, his palm hesitant on my shoulder; I couldn't help the involuntary flinch I gave. His hand dropped.

"How did you…ah, the jewels?"

I nodded, my lips pursed as I kept my face turned away, only glancing at him from the corner of my eye. I took a deep, relaxing breath and released it, dropping my shoulders and loosening my tightly clenched hands. Slowly my calm was restored. Perhaps he hadn't apologized, but at least he was behaving more rationally. After all, I could hardly expect him to apologize after the words I had furiously spoken to him about the Khanum. That, perhaps, had been too harsh.

"You have no idea how much those jewels helped me." I spoke with a small smile tugging tentatively at my lips. "With them, I was able to escape that life and survive until I found employment here. I was so thankful, when I left, for what you had given me."

The jewels were least of all, of course. I was ever more thankful for the daughter he had bestowed upon me.

"Why did you finally leave, though? What was it that gave you the will?"

I smiled bitterly; that answer was far beyond being given to him in truth. "I just…I couldn't face that life anymore. I had to leave."

There was silence for a while. We both sat in consideration, rocked by the gentle sway of the cab as it turned onto a gentler street, both unwilling to touch, even so much as to brush skin; we sat stiff, frozen to our seats. And just as I was beginning to think that was all that would be spoken between us, for now, he took a deep breath. The words that spilled from his lips were spoken in a whisper so quiet, so sorry; it made my heart turn over.

"I couldn't face what I had done either in the end, not anymore. I finally had what I wanted, and then…I let her go."

He gazed at his clenched fists fiercely, his shoulders hunched over as he leaned forward with a drooping head, and his lips thinned in displeasure, no doubt already regretting what he had said to me. He spoke not a word more of it; but it was all I needed. In those few words, I heard the evidence of unbelievable pain and regret. In those words, despite everything I knew of him, and all those hurtful things we had said to each other, his obvious remorse redeemed him.

"Then, I think…I was wrong. I didn't mean what I said earlier," I smiled wanly; I wasn't use to apologizing and pushing away my rotten temper. But nonetheless I did, and in that moment of forgiveness, my hands slowly crept forward to encircle his. "I was just angry."

I was still confused as to why he had kidnapped her, why he had behaved in such a manner, but we'd already gotten in one fight already. Something told me that if I so much as mentioned that woman, that Christine, he would strike out in even worse anger. I didn't understand it, and perhaps I never would. But right then it was enough to know that in the end, he had put things right.

Erik's eyes were glued to my hands upon his, his bottom lip tugged under his teeth as clear indecision arose over him. He glanced away quickly, pulling his hands out from under mine. And in a bold move, I switched sides to sit at the short bench seat he sat on, my hand resting on his arm to feel the firm strength beneath it; the rise of developed muscle that stiffened as if nervous beneath my fingers. I looped my arm around his, scooting closer and leaning my head against his shoulder.

He sent a fleeting glance in my direction before he looked away again, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry, I…perhaps you should not…"

"Should not what, Erik?"

"I don't think I…I didn't realize that you…hated so much what we…"

He trailed off, unable to finish his statement. And I was gratified to see a red tinge of color upon his cheek as he stared obstinately away from me.

"Hated what? Do you mean…" He didn't answer, didn't even look at me; dawning comprehension overtook me then, and compassion overwhelmed me to set it at rights. I felt worse still for the words I had spoken earlier.

"Oh, no, Erik. No, please don't think that." I turned his face in my direction, my hands pillowed on either side of his face in a sudden rare gesture of tenderness. I gazed into his eyes somberly and tried to smile with reassurance.

"When I spoke earlier of Persia, I was not talking about you. It's true, I was terrified of you at first, and I considered refusing and just letting the khanum make an end of it for me. You have to admit, Erik, you do present a fairly forbidding image after all." His lips twitched up in the corners at that. I tried desperately to come up with the right words for this. It was a delicate situation for him, no doubt. Delicate for both of us.

"But…it was not so with you, Erik. You did the one thing every other man since failed do to; you _asked _me if I would rather stay or go. You gave me a choice, and that meant more to me than anything else ever has."

He pulled his face away, trying to keep that constant frown on his lips and that everlasting expression of disdain in place. It wasn't enough, after all, that I just say he was kinder than the others and that it had been of my own choice. I swallowed thickly, my cheeks already flushed at what I was going to say next.

"Do you remember what you said to me that night?" He glanced at me with a brow raised, and my stomach did a small somersault. "You said…that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, staying with you. And…and…"_ might as well just get the truth out; no beating around the bush, just be honest. _"Honestly, Erik…you're the only man that ever gave me such…such enjoyment in doing such a thing with a…with a man. I am...glad my first master was you." There, that was it. I took a deep, tremulous breath, my cheeks inflamed in embarrassment.

That was all I would say. I wouldn't tell him how often I dreamed of the two of us together in such a way; I wouldn't tell him how every single dreary night that I had slept with another man beside me, I would pretend it was Erik's arms that I was being held in; I could not say how badly I ached for him, despite my constant fear and shame.

"You mean you…enjoyed it?" He was looking at me very seriously, as if trying to discern whether I was lying or speaking the truth; and bit-by-bit, he started to lean closer to me, his hand resting lightly on my elbow.

I nodded shortly, shrugging him away and staring out the window again. "How could you think otherwise? After we just…after what just happened?" I peeked at him from beneath my lashes, noting the way his eyes turned to a darker amber that blazed with a look I did not, by any means, want to recognize. It made my stomach clench and my heart thump quicker, and I could scarcely manage to breathe. My teeth tugged at my lip nervously as his hand came up to neatly brush a lock of my hair behind my ear. I turned my face away, closing my eyes as a finger traced down my cheek with a lightness that felt like the barest whisper of a butterfly kiss; and when I opened my lashes again to peer at him from the corner of my eyes, his head was cocked to the side, a considering look upon his face as his eyes gazed at me with drugging heat. It made my heart pound to see such a look upon his face, as if he was thinking upon just what sort of boundaries he could forego with me.

"Erik?" my voice was whisper soft as I settled myself back onto my original seat, scooting as far away from him as possible and pressing my shoulder to the wall as I turned my head just slightly to look at him. He braced his palms on the cushioned bench beneath him, leaning back just slightly with his head still cocked to the side as he narrowed his eyes at me.

And then he raised a brow in answer, nodding for me to continue with a smile, deadly and calculating, upon his lips. A shiver traveled down my spine at the sight of it.

I cleared my throat, glowered at him with furrowed brows, tried to get control of the situation. And I started again.

"Erik." Better. I spoke in the same no-nonsense voice that I used on Mina when she'd gotten up to fresh mischief. The cab swayed to a stop, and I glanced briefly out of the window to see that we had reached my Lady's estates. I turned back to Erik. "There's something I want to say first, before I leave, that I need you to think about."

A pause, brief and unsure. He didn't move from where he sat, but just kept staring at me, albeit with an expression of slightly more puzzlement. I cleared my throat, struggled for the right words. "I need you to answer…I need you to decide who…who is it you truly want? Is it me? Or Christine?"

And then uncomfortable silence. He froze, his shoulders raised tensely, his face hardened to absolute lines of disapproval, and I sensed that he hardly dared to breathe, lest he lose control. I waited, my breath bated as well, my eyes closed. And when he spoke, it was with a voice of chill formality, an icy pretense to hide the malice I saw burning in his luminous eyes.

"I believe we have reached your destination, Madame."

I leaned towards him, my hands spread open in supplication, my lips parted to speak on my behalf. But as my eyes stared upon the hardened, angry visage of his face, my voice froze in my throat and refused to leave hiding; he sat straight and tall with eyes that stared imperiously down at me, one hand lifted as if poised to strike. Never before had I been so intimidated by his impressive stature, or by the absolute majesty of the power that seemed to radiate from him. Not even on the night that I had first met him. My lips snapped shut as I sat back again, hugging my arms about myself, my eyes hooded as I watched that hand. But it only moved to the handle of the door, sliding it open and gesturing formally towards the exit.

And it seemed that leaving was the only thing I could do. I struggled out of the cab, my damp skirts tangling around my legs and tripping my feet so badly that I staggered my way down to level ground below. An argument raged inside my mind that I was right; that before ever I breathed so much as one whisper of Mina, I would discover the nature of this desire he seemed to have for Christine; I would discover whether or not I could ever surpass this woman he craved so much.

I turned around to face him, his name slipping off of my tongue and whispering past my lips in a helpless, pleading entreaty. But he only stared at me for the briefest of moments, his eyes frosty and his lips frowning; then the door was slammed before my face and the cab was off, rattling and swaying down the street and away from me.

* * *

**Erik and his whoring ways! I can't get enough of him!  
**


	8. Chapter Eight: A Tale from Persia

**A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone! Here's a nice long chapter to bring in the new year, I hope you all enjoy it. And thank you, thank you for the reviews! I'm so glad so many of you are enjoying the story. I could just kiss you all! It cheers my heart. Alas, if only it could cheer my gall bladder as well. Sadly, I have no gall bladder::hangs head in shame::  
**

**Speaking of kissing, I realized something this holiday season. Have you all heard that delectably jazzy little version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" by Ella Fitzgerald? I've come to the conclusion that if **_**I**_** were to have Erik all to myself for Christmas, and he were to kiss me whilst we stood under the mistletoe, **_**that**_** would be the song I would like to be playing. Call me eccentric, but there is something incredibly sexy about the jazzy background music in that song, with the trumpets. Mmm, I love it! I can picture Erik so easily when I hear that song. Especially his sexy, quirky little brow. I've always thought of Erik having a bit of a quirky brow. **

**But I digress. Just some wistful fancies from a silly gal. Have fun reading! Everyone thank Barb for another fantastic job editing! The more red marks, the happier I am. She's rocks hardcore. Thanks Barb! **

Chapter Eight: A Tale from Persia

I walked about the estate as if I were only half-there. My mind insistently brought forth images of what had occurred between Erik and me, both the ecstatically good moments as well as the terrible parting that stood between us. Lorraine constantly asked me what was wrong, why I seemed a shell of myself, and I would just shrug and look away. Madame Laroche just stared at me quizzically, but if there were questions she wished to ask, none of them were voiced. Paulette, another of my fellow maids, remained as she always was, silent but watchful. She was the only one that didn't antagonize me with looks and pointed silences.

Mina was confused by how I shielded myself. She tried her mightiest to bring me back to myself; it was she, and only she, that could succeed in such an endeavor. At night, as I tucked her into bed, she'd sing for me in that pure little voice of hers with the promise of paradise in it, and bring a distant smile to my face; in the early mornings, as dawn took it's first brave breath and broke across the sky in whimsical hues of pinks and blues and dusty gray, she'd play on the piano that was in the library and bring a glow to my eyes.

Her tutor, graciously supplied by Madame Laroche, was doing a good job in giving my daughter a fair education, but I had to admit, even in moments of playtime the girl outdid herself, devouring literature whenever possible and teaching herself to skillfully play the piano. Her fingers would dance across the black and white keys with practiced proficiency and the music she brought forth from the instrument was beautiful beyond compare. In those moments, I was reminded of how infinitely more important she was to me than anything else, and how achingly proud of her I was.

Madame Laroche, upon recognizing the capable genius of my child, had in consequence continued to provide Mina with one tutor after another. In the mornings my daughter proceeded to take lessons to gain a basic grasp of a wide-ranged education, with a competent teacher pressing upon his young student the finer points of literature, history, math, and science; but after that was her music lesson, wherein my daughter was quickly learning the skill of not just piano, but violin as well. Her favorite of all the lessons was that, for not only did she learn instruments, but the teacher also rigorously set to coaching Mina's young and still-impressionable voice.

Afterwards, in the early afternoons was her language lesson, followed by an art lesson. Each tutor expressed upon me a blatant plea that I should allow such a prodigiously obvious career of success to flourish, and permit the child to perform on stage. But they were always left with the same reply, a constant mantra that I believed my child not yet ready to embrace such fame.

Of course I could not always shield my daughter from such a life. In the end, once she had garnered more years of experience and was ready to leave the steady and protective embrace of my parenting, it would ultimately be Mina's choice to make. I would cherish the day I saw the talented girl on stage, with the sound of rapturous applause of an astounded audience deafening in my ears and the sight of a small and wonderful girl bringing all of Paris to its feet; I could imagine such a moment so easily, for I knew it was effortlessly within the child's grasp.

But I was not yet ready to give her up to the world of fame and fortune. My experience of life had left me suspicious and quite overly defensive of the girl; I could hardly bear the thought of relinquishing her yet to face whatever Paris may have in store for her. One day, my daughter would face that challenge and conquer all in her path. But that was not this day. I wasn't ready for it.

So she continued with her lessons, and if her teachers thought me odd and eccentric, they kept their opinions to themselves. Mina did not begrudge me what years I had left to keep her within my grasp; on the contrary, she spent time with me quite happily enough whenever she was not in lessons or off causing whatever mischief she contented herself with whenever she was not in my sights.

One such morning, before what was sure to be another eventful session with her morning tutor, we took our breakfast together, seated at the small servants table in the kitchen. It happened three days after that desperate storm that had shouted above in the Parisian skies, and I was silently considering that day in the rain, like the pouring sheet of a waterfall that buried all under it's touch, a deafening and proud roar of water and lighting and thunder. My lips fairly tingled at the thought of it, that kiss, that moment of complete oblivion to all else around me, when I had ached and burned so much. My sigh was dreamy as I toyed with the eggs before me, chin in palm and mind in another world entirely.

"Mama," Mina started severely. "Why aren't you eating?"

I jumped a bit, my head flying up to look at her in surprised guilt as the egg on my fork teetered and dropped back down onto its plate. Her arms were crossed and she was looking at me with the sulkiest of expressions, her bottom lip jutting out in disapproval. I blinked a few times, then looked back at my food.

"I'm sorry, really. I'm just a bit distracted, not really very hungry at all, actually. Nothing to worry about though, sweetest." I hid an overlarge yawn behind my hand, but she only frowned at my attempted nonchalance.

"Mama, please pay attention." More blinks. It was as if she were the parent and I the wayward daughter about to receive punishment. My teeth snipped over a piece of bacon, chewing absently as I considered my small daughter.

"I want to ask you something," she began in a tone entirely too businesslike, acting quite unlike any average six-year-old I had ever met. But then, I doubted very much that her father had been an average six-year-old, either. Her eyes were cool, like frozen slabs of gold; narrowed, concentrated. I could imagine very easily what she would be like at my age; I could already see the careful control and indifference that she exhibited, and the girl absolutely exuded maturity and poise.

But then her eyes lowered back down to her plate, and her brows furrowed in concentration. All at once she was just my tiny little girl again, a mere child that was not really sure at all how to go about asking me what seemed to be something significantly crucial to the child.

"Where's…where's my papa?" The voice that generally remained so composed spoke in a faltering little tone, and for once the cool façade of indifference vanished. I stole a deep breath, overwhelmed by the sudden and deep guilt that wrenched through me.

"Oh," I breathed, caught quite unawares and dreadfully unsure of what to say. Delicately, I laid what was left of my bacon back on the plate, steepled my fingers together in contemplation, and closed my eyes as if I'd find the answers I needed on the blank surface of my eyelids.

"Did he…did he die?" the question was meek, her face wan as she looked down at her own hardly touched plate of food. Looking at that tiny girl beside me, I could tell there were tears in there, somewhere, that she refused to let fall. Her little fists stayed clenched tight, her soft lips thinned to a straight, wary line. And her eyes…they beat back a terrible sadness that, despite herself, shone brightly in those golden depths of pure, angelic liquid.

"No, dear," I said softly, preparing myself for what I knew I would see in those eyes. "He's still alive."

It hurt to see the emotions war across her face; hurt to see both the relief and crushed disappointment that coaxed those big eyes to slide closed and squeeze tightly shut. It hurt because I knew exactly how she felt; every heartbreaking bit of it. I understood what it was to feel abandoned; to feel as if the one person in the world that should love you unconditionally had not wanted you…had given you up. I knew how it felt to wish that maybe, just maybe, there was a reason why he had not come for you; knew what it was like to feel that dismay that there was no such reason; and at the same time that illogical sense of relief you felt, despite not ever knowing them, that they were still alive and well.

I could almost hear the words she'd be whispering over and over in her mind to beat back the tears that begged to come forth, words that I had so fervently whispered to myself so very long ago…_be strong, don't give up, don't cry…please, don't cry. And please, oh please, Allah can't I meet him? Just once?_ I would have wept if I had not already known it would not help her.

Allah, how I had begged, when I had been but Mina's age and staring out into a glittering sky of midnight black with a sparkle of stars that had yet to be quenched stirring in my eyes, a girl who had yet to discover a world to be hated and dreaded, with dreams unfulfilled still beating in my honest and whole little heart. How I had whispered a desperate plea to those stars above, _'please let him come back!'_ with such ardent hopes. Somewhere in my memory, there was the vague sense of a promise; words of a pledge that had been spoken to me in the very distant past…_I'll come back for you, I promise I will_…

And so through those first few months I had continued to sit faithfully, long into each night on my open balcony, with my eyes going bitterly cold as they gazed endlessly to the horizon, in hopes of seeing a single rider come galloping across the dusky expanse of desert; come to gather me up and take me away from these halls of slavery; to take me home.

But he had never come. He promised, and he never came back! And slowly, I had begun to forget my father; my memory faded until I no longer recalled how he looked or acted, even what his name might have been. And yet, there was something there that I had always buried far down; some deep-rooted memory of being tossed high in the air, squealing in delight all the way back down to the safety of a pair of strong and ever-steady arms that seemed to say '_I will always keep you safe…I am your shelter_…' and then another little coo of bubbling laughter as the tossing commenced yet again. Vaguely, I thought I could remember moments of happiness, of contentment and love.

And though I believed that it was only my wishful imagination, there was still that feeling there, deep down that maybe…just maybe…

And Mina didn't even have that.

But she had me. And I would do the absolute best I could, despite the fact that it was I, in my self-bitter cruelty, that was denying her these so very precious moments.

So I gathered her into my arms, pressed a reassuring hand to her back as my other hand stroked through the mass of black locks that dangled well past her shoulders. My lips placed a tentative kiss on her cheek; her hands fisted in my blouse as if desperate to hold onto the one thing that was really and truly genuine for her; her face turned into my chest as she sighed with such sadness. It made my heart ache to hear it.

"Would you like to hear about him?" My question was soft-spoken as I whispered into her ear, brushing back a wayward curl of hair. She nodded, so simply, as if it was all she had been wanting for a long, long time.

I smiled faintly, took a deep breath, pictured Erik in my mind; so strong, so unsure, and a mastermind through and through. "He's a genius," I said simply, rocking Mina slightly and patting her back. She turned her cheek to rest on my chest, her eyes staring distantly at the wall. "Anything he turned his hand to, he could succeed at."

"Ah, and music; that's his true mastery. A person of his faith might say he had a voice that could sing the angels down from the heavens above to weep at his side with the divine sound of it. I heard it myself; he sang me straight to sleep once. Paradise cannot compare to his voice." She was looking up at me intently now, her eyes hungry as she consumed my words. "I think you get a lot of your talent from him, dear girl, much as I'd like to claim responsibility for it." She smiled then, a small little sign of gladness that made my heart fairly sing. Her cheeks turned a pretty pink of exhilaration, and her eyes beamed at me.

"I never got the chance to hear him at the piano, but I understand he is quite an excellent player. He composes music," I added, as she stared up at me, dreamy-eyed.

"So he was smart? Really smart?"

"Oh, very smart," I replied exuberantly. "There was many a time I felt a fool in his presence." The statement was drenched with subtle deception; the girl need not know that all of my experience with the man consisted, for the most part, of the last few weeks; it wasn't until _here_, in Paris, that I had finally come to be in his presence for any length of time at all. I continued on with my narrative, trying to ignore with wincing guilt inside my heart. "It's true…he has a sometimes-arrogant way about him, and he's a bit disdainful to those inferior to him. He isn't the most perfect man in the world, but…but he has a good heart," my eyes stared away distantly as I considered that. "I could tell..."

I looked towards the window, my eyes humbled by the glow of sunlight that streamed into the kitchen and possessed the room with its yellow cheerfulness. And deep down, I knew it was true; Erik may have done terrible things, but I knew…deep down I knew he could be good.

"Where did you meet him, mama?" Mina looked up at me excitedly, quivering with her absolute joy in hearing about her father for the first time. A wan smile crossed my lips as I looked away again.

"It was in Persia," I said quietly, my gaze growing ever more distant. "However, your father is French. He only lived in Persia for a short while. Being a man of his genius, Erik was sought out by our shah, and when he came he was soon enough a favorite in the court." I could leave out the bit that almost everyone had hated Erik for his popularity, all except for _her_. The Khanum, along with her pompous son. The thought of that woman left a bitter taste on my tongue.

Mina was smiling at me radiantly. "Erik?" she whispered softly, as if testing the name out. I nodded with a coaxing smile on my face, though in my heart I felt an ever more powerful, wrenching guilt for depriving her of even that.

"What happened? Why isn't he here with us?" Her voice sounded vaguely outraged at the idea that he could dare to not be with us, and her eyes demanded answers as she gazed up at me piercingly. A shadowed frown turned at my lips and I swallowed thickly, closing my eyes to keep courage; if I looked at her, I could not say it…I just could not.

"Dear one," I whispered softly, delicately. "I was a slave, and he, my master." My brows furrowed bitterly. "Allah did not will it; we were not meant to be." _Please do not let that be so any longer, Allah. _

I could not tell her that I had been much more than just a slave; that I had served more than just that one master. I did not think I would ever be able to tell her what _exactly_ my status in Persia had been. I felt so…disappointed in myself. More disappointed than I ever had. I wished so much that she had a mother she could look up to, could think of as her hero. But I could inspire no such thoughts. Not now, not ever.

"I was slave." I said again, as if by repeating it I could help not only her come to terms with it, but myself as well. But my voice, though as brave as could be, still quavered. And when I finally looked down upon her face, I could see such evident dismay; her shoulders drooped down as if defeated, and her sigh was a sad, formidable sound, one that seemed to be so very familiar to me. I cuddled her closer.

"Do not think less of him, Mina. We had no choice, either of us. If one of us had refused, I would have been killed. He saved my life, and…and he was never once cruel to me. He was a kind master, and a good man." I smiled at her; or I did my best to smile despite the sorrow that spread through me.

"And you," I leaned closer, with a tender look on my face that clearly bespoke my love and devotion for her. "You saved me from slavery. When I realized I was with child, that is when I had to strength to escape. If not for you, I'd still be there. And I wouldn't have the person I love best of all by my side."

And her smile then was the truest thing I'd ever seen; she flung her arms around me and squeezed tight, bringing barely controlled tears to my eyes as she hugged me fiercely. And when she looked back at me, there were tears of her own, welling in those deep pools of molten gold.

But the girl was strong and fierce as wildfire; never did she allow a single tear to slip past her careful control. I could not remember how long ago it was that I had seen her cry in the company of others; could not remember a time when she had not been such a tough force of untamed life.

I could only hope to Allah that I would never have to see that fire beaten down; a fledgling little fear hatched itself in my heart as those small arms clung tightly to me, some strange premonition of indiscernible doom that hovered over the two of us, and I prayed that my fears would forever remain unfounded, that my girl would never be defeated, would never give up…

* * *

Later that night, after what seemed an eternity of scrubbing down the decadent floors in the foyer of the estate, I made my weary way to my little room. My feet dragged along lazily; my fingers stayed limp and immobile by my sides; I also noticed, with a depressed groan, that my stomach cramps were coming on ever more steadily. In just a few days, it was going to be hell. 

With a sigh, I pushed myself onward to my room and I gave a deep, heartfelt moan as I kicked my shoes from my aching feet once I got inside. With fingers swollen and red from cleaning, I clumsily found the buttons on my blouse and fumbled my way down. I yanked the garment off and threw it to the floor with abandon, delighting in the rush of chill air that pricked at my arms.

Next, the skirt fell to my ankles in a heap of fabric; I kicked it out from around my feet without a care, too tired to worry about straightening and hanging. Oh, and then…with a satisfied sigh, the corset was unlaced and falling to the floor. A grin of pure pleasure spread to my lips. _Ah, relief!_ My arms stretched above my head in relish, and a deep groan buried itself in my throat. As my hands lowered, I lifted my heavy fall of hair, piling it on top of my head as my other hand delicately kneaded into the tender skin of my neck.

It was then, standing as I was in a thin chemise that clung to my skin, with my fingers massaging my flesh, when I heard it, that slight whoosh of a shaking breath being released. My hair tumbled down my shoulders as my hands fell into fists at my side. I craned my neck around, eyes peering into the bleak darkness of my room; I had yet to light my oil lamp. As I scanned the area desperately, it was then that I knew, without a doubt, that someone else was in the room with me; for I had seen a heavy black cloak of most expensive cashmere hanging on my coat rack, with a handsome black fedora sitting atop it. Those pieces of expensive men's-wear were most certainly not mine.

"Who's there?" I demanded in a brave voice, though in truth I felt no braver than a mouse right then. "Answer me, or I shall scream the whole house down upon you!"

The intruder replied with but a chuckle of deepest menace and patient amusement; it drifted to me from the same dark corner that I suddenly saw a looming figure of shadows withdraw from. My heart jumped into my throat, then bumped frantically against my chest as fear clouded my mind.

"Ssh," he shushed me; _shushed_ me! "It's me." And then he revealed himself with the quick striking of a match, which he used to light my lamp, making visible the stark white mask and all, along with a hard smile of amusement that played across his grim features. A dim glow of yellow light encircled us as Erik stepped closer, shaking the match out and placing it delicately into a small bowl on my nightstand. The faint glow of the lamp haloed his fine black hair, and ran over the rich burgundy material of the brocade waistcoat that flowed across his chest. My fingers itched to touch; I could feel the heat rush to my face.

Allah, how I could make such use of the neatly tucked cravat! The images were there in my mind; fingers grasping fine silk, the coy smile followed by the firm tug down, lips hot and desperate. I bit my lips, looked away to compose myself before glancing back at him.

"So," I started, clenched fists moving to rest on hips, head tilted in consideration. "What brings you here, Erik?" It was a relief not to be crippled by the dreadful modesty women had here in France; I could stand here, bold as anything, in my chemise. What was the point, after all, being embarrassed? I had spent all my growing years and beyond in clothes that barely left anything to the imagination. It seemed rather natural to me.

So I ignored the way Erik ignored any part of me that was below my neck, and the flush of red coloring his own neck. Despite all, a gentleman through and through. _He breaks into my room, yet still he keeps his manners_. I tried not to roll my eyes.

He cleared his throat. Crossed his arms. Glared at me. " Maybe you would like to put some clothes on first."

I smiled, suppressing a small bout of laughter. "Oh, I suppose I'll be fine in this…Erik," I tried to imitate that simple, rolling purr of unrealized seduction that coated his voice whenever he said my name, one of my brows arching and a sly smile possessing my lips as I noticed his discomfited roll of neck and shoulders as he glanced away. "I'll be sleeping in this after all." And I moved not an inch from where I stood.

For a moment he simply looked at me, his eyes intense as they burned into mine. My spine tingled as I waited, my heart beating faster with each second that passed.

"Ria," he started slowly, his voice hesitant, unsure. Another tingle ran through my spine; I barely quelled the shiver that begged to run down it at the sound of that voice, lilting my name with a delicate roll of his tongue. I could not even begin to hope that I might mimic that! I crossed my arms as goose bumps arose on my flesh, and my lips turned down in a pout.

"I cannot answer the question you asked me earlier." I stared at him, eyes opened wide with unveiled surprise, pouting lips slowly parting in my shock. Where was all of his anger? All of his self-righteous fury? "About…about Christine."

I froze, and I swear my heart skipped a beat at the name. When he said that name, it was sheer impossibility to ignore the way his eyes softened, or the affection in his tone. And suddenly I knew I had been wrong, so utterly wrong. He hadn't just kidnapped her; he hadn't just desired her.

He had loved her then, and still he loved her now; and I had not seen it, despite the clear signs that pointed to such an answer. It was there, in his eyes and in his voice. In his hesitance, and the way his hands were fisted tightly by his sides, as if he were only barely controlling himself. His inability to answer such a question said more than any possible answer ever could. I lowered my gaze from his as a profound disappointment crushed my sinking heart. I had not realized it would hurt to hear this.

Distantly I heard those words from earlier, words of such utter self-sacrifice, words I hadn't really thought about that suddenly took on even greater meaning. _'I couldn't face what I had done either__in the end, not anymore. I finally had what I wanted, and then…I let her go.'_ He had loved her, wanted to keep her more than anything, and in the end he had let her go.

My breath hitched when his fingers tucked under my chin, lifting my face until his eyes held mine; their glow was brighter than the lamp that shone beside us. I swallowed thickly, beating back the urge to turn away.

I observed the step closer he took, felt the chill of his other hand touch my elbow with hesitance, ignored the way my heart couldn't seem to stop pounding. What was he doing to me? Why was I feeling like this, as if everything was spinning from my control, like I was spiraling down with no idea when I'd reach the bottom?

"I'm going to tell you this honestly. I care very much for Christine. You can't imagine what it was like, living my life, being alone and knowing that the fact would never change. Christine was hope for me…I…I can't seem to forget her."

Each word felt like a stab in my heart. I barely controlled the expressionless look on my face. My lips tucked together tightly, desperately; so desperately, I wanted to tell him that I understood so very much what it was to be alone. Allah, I had been surrounded by riches and rooms full of women that could never be silent, and yet I had never been more alone than I had been in those days in Persia.

And here was my hope, right in front of me; confessing his love for another woman. My teeth bit into the flesh of my lip with a sharp sting as the irony sank in.

"But she's gone, Ria. Gone and never coming back. I've given up on the thought of her."

I could not hold back the look of loathsome bitterness that crossed my features. It wouldn't have been surprising if little bolts of lighting snapped from my eyes.

"So, you are saying I'm second choice? You cannot have her, so you'll settle for me instead?" My words were drenched with resentment, and my eyes, I was sure, were no better. Erik winced visibly.

"No, you are not understanding me at all, Ria." I frowned deeply, my expression going ever more sour. Oh, yes, silly little Ria, just a twittering girl with a mind as dull as a nut. Allah forbid I should understand something as simple as a man telling me that I must leave him well enough alone. I wanted to retort that I understood very well. I wanted to forget all about being a considerate person and tell him just exactly how I felt about this Christine. But then he spoke again, in a voice that faltered and stumbled unsurely over his words, and somehow I forgot all about being angry.

"Listen, all that time after Persia, I never forgot…you were the first woman that…I'm sorry; I do not have the words for this." He swallowed, breaking eye contact. I couldn't help the little smile that tipped up the corners of my lips. My hand rose to touch his arm with uncertainty.

"It is all right, Erik," I said softly. "Just…tell me what you're trying to say. I will not judge you. I never have."

He glanced at me very briefly, and for a moment I could have sworn he almost smiled at me, but then he was looking away again, turning his back on me as he walked towards my little vanity table; and it was sadly obvious how his gaze avoided the mirror. Instead his attention was on a little overturned picture, yellowed and worn with many creases, a picture only slightly younger than I was. I made a small move forward, my fingers itching to remove it from his sight, but it was too late. His hands already moved idly to pick it up. Perhaps he was just trying to think on what to say next, and needed something to fill the distance between us. Perhaps he had lost his courage altogether to speak so honestly with me.

But, in either case, he had just inadvertently stumbled upon the most sacred relic of my past.

His eyes stared for several moments and before long the corner of his lips had quirked up in an amused sort of smile; I tried on my own smile as I stepped closer to him, glancing at the picture and away again as a deep pain settled in my heart; the smile turned into more of a grimace. I could not look at it, and yet it was too late, for the image was already in my mind. I could see it with painstaking clarity.

"My mother," I whispered, folding my arms around myself as Erik only continued to study the picture; one of a woman who looked strikingly similar to me, with a brave, confident smile spread across her lips and with eyes as dark as a moonless midnight, eyes that smiled just as much as her lips did. She looked as if she might have been laughing, and in her arms she had a small girl of three or four, with a head full of wavy black locks and big eyes that shyly peered away from the camera; but her lips smiled just as her mothers did, and perhaps a giggle or two had been involved. I wondered if my father had taken the picture, and if it was his untidy scrawl of handwriting across the back that had scribbled out only my name.

"That was all I had, when they found me sleeping at the doors of the harem. Just that picture, and a name. I was but seven years old when I was left; I must have been about four when that picture was taken." He finally looked up from the photograph, his gaze upon my face, and something in his eyes made me take a deep breath; it was a look heartbreakingly similar to the one that had come to his face as he uttered Christine's name, that small little softening to the eyes, something almost…affectionate. I looked away, hugging myself tighter.

"I do not remember her…not really." A voice, singing softly to put me to sleep; A voice, screaming a terrible shriek into the night and arousing me from my slumber to scent the stench of something burning; A voice, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I did not whisper even a word about that. I could not even remember what _that_ really was.

"You look very much alike." I smiled faintly, looking back towards him and relieved to see that the look in his eyes was gone; perhaps it had been only my imagination.

"Yes," I whispered, taking the picture from his hands with fingers that shook just slightly. I studied it for a moment longer, then placed it back on the table, face down. "I suppose we did." My eyes caught his again, and suddenly I was aware of how close we stood; I wanted so badly to put my arms around him, and yet I was scared; scared of moving too fast, so fast that he might leave. Instead I glanced down.

"What was it you were saying, Erik?"

A sigh echoed in my ears, a formidable sigh of such weariness it seemed to make every part of me ache.

"I just…maybe I never got Christine out of my head, Ria. But I never got you out, either. Not once have I ever forgotten you." I bit my bottom lip, tried to school my expression, as he took a deep breath, as if to breathe in the courage that he so needed. "I think you could change what I feel about Christine. I think you could help me forget. I think…I think I want you to."

That was it for my resolve, I'm afraid. Something seemed to shout in my mind with a deep fierceness, _breach the gap! Touch him…taste him_…and I followed it without question. My arms finally found their way around his waist, clung as tightly as they could, as I burrowed my face against his chest with a heartfelt sigh singing past my lips.

I felt the hesitancy of his arms as they wrapped around my shoulders; one of his hands stroked down my hair as softly as it might, and a deep hum sounded from above me. I felt his chest vibrate against my suddenly all-too warm cheek, heard the lilt of soft, wistful music echo in my ears as that purring voice drifted down to me. Shivers racked through my body as I tilted my head up, gazing at him with eyes gone hungry.

"Kiss me, Erik," my voice had gone whisper-soft, and it felt ragged in my throat as I licked my lips and tightened my arms around his waist. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind as his eyes dragged down to gaze at my lips. I could feel the burn of his eyes all through me, piercing the delicate flesh of lips and sizzling through my suddenly feverish skin. And I couldn't keep my own eyes from roving over his lips, desperate to feel them against mine once more. His frowned seriously, curving down in a delicate line of concentration.

My heart raced away in my chest as one of his hands drifted down to curl around my thigh; for once they were excruciatingly warm against my skin, yet despite that, chills still rose across my flesh. His other hand tucked under my chin, fingers tracing along the vulnerable skin there, sketching the small scar etched beneath my ear as his face lowered towards mine. I could feel his heart beating just as rapidly as mine; neither one of us could hardly dare to breathe. His lips had gotten closer, so much closer that I could almost feel the sensation of them upon mine, and I heard the faltered pattern of his breathing with ever more clarity. My chin tilted up of its own accord, lips trembling with their desperation, hands twining themselves around his shoulders, eyes slowly dragged shut to let lashes feather against skin. Allah, how I _wanted_.

He murmured something softly, unintelligibly, against my lips as his own slowly brushed against mine in the barest whisper of a kiss; my heart ached fiercely in the dizzying intensity of it.

And it was the sweetest feeling in the world to me, to feel his lips finally, gently, come together with mine. To feel them curve against my own with such perfection it was as if they were made to match mine. He was painfully gentle, with both his hands suddenly resting on either side of my face, thumbs stroking softly, and with his lips pressed so delicately against mine with the most subtle and tender of motions. I had never felt what it was like, to be kissed thus; as if it wasn't desire and selfishness that made a man kiss you, but something else entirely, something born of a feeling that was the complete opposite of lust; something that made my heart turn over and the blood rise to my cheeks as my lips formed a sweet smile beneath his. All the best things in the world couldn't compare to being kissed in such a way.

My hands tightened, fingers digging into his shoulders as I pulled myself closer, marveling in the feeling of one of his hands dropping to wrap around my waist, his other buried in the tangled mess of my hair. And he sighed against my lips, and murmured my name in a throaty, yet impossibly silken voice, as if this was the newest of sensations not only for me, but for him as well.

I rested a hand against his heart, relishing in the strong beat of it, my fingers curling into the silken material of his waistcoat. My other hand stayed about his neck tightly as I deepened our kiss, desperate and hungry. There was that little strangled sound again, buried deep in his throat as his hand moved to curl desperately around my thigh again, fingers tightening around my leg with near bruising force.

But with a small shake of his head, his lips broke free from mine. His breath sounded ragged; his eyes shone desirous and yet confused; his hand remained, shaking, upon my thigh. A groan sang past his lips as he rested his forehead against mine, as if he could hardly bear to stop, and yet could not seem to continue.

Allah, I felt like I was on fire. It was too much, too soon; I felt like I was being driven insane. And yet still my lips sought his; my fingers dug into his cravat and dragged his face back down towards mine, and my lips fairly rejoiced at the renewed contact of his against mine. He gave another deep groan against my lips, and his shoulders hunched as he bent over me, both of his hands dropping down to the backs of my thighs, dangerously high as they went beneath my chemise to caress the heated skin there.

And even as I gasped at the thrilling sensation, I pulled away from him, scarcely able to catch my breath. "Easy," I said in what I hoped was an light, teasing manner; the effect isn't so great when you can hardly get the words out for lack of air. I wiped my lips on the back of my hand, straightened my chemise in an attempt of dignity, and tried to keep the smile from my lips. I didn't quite succeed at the latter.

And I was surprised, extremely so, to see a matching smile on his own face, even as his chest heaved as he drew in ragged gulps of air and gazed at me with some fierce spark glowing in his amber-bright eyes. They were darker than usual; like deep pools of heated liquid gold, dangerous enough to burn your skin with their ever-searing heat.

But despite my smile and my apparent ease at being with him right then, deep down I was terrified. Never before had I felt so utterly frightened; I didn't understand these feelings he evoked in me, both that burning ache in the pit of my stomach, and this softening of my heart whenever I saw that smile of his; I was afraid of the passionate reaction he garnered from me each time his hands touched me, or his lips tasted mine; my insides churned from the fear of uncertainty.

How was it that with a mere brush of his lips against mine, my hatred for men simply vanished, just as all the images in my head of all those things I had endured vanished? How did he make me forget all of my anger towards the race of man, and all the terror of my past; the fright that at all times kept its firm grip on me?

And it was that, above all else, that scared me most of all.

Erik cleared his throat, glanced away and back at me. "I suppose I should be going then," was all he said, simply enough, but in his voice I heard just the barest deviation to a question. I paused for one long moment, indecision and longing warring in my mind. I crossed my arms, staring seriously into his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose that would be for the best. I have an early day tomorrow," I stated simply, shrugging my shoulders and, with a wistful glance towards my bed, I added as an afterthought, "I really should get some sleep."

I chose to ignore the mixed look of slight disappointment and uncertain relief that crossed his face. With one simple, fluid movement his cloak was back in place, turning his body even further into the elongated shadow it so appeared to be. With graceful fingers, he set the fedora atop his head, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he headed towards the door. I blinked once, twice, in surprise before recovering and stepping between him and the door.

"What, no farewell?"

He stared down at me in polite puzzlement, his brow raised in a manner of confusion as he considered me. His fedora sat rakishly to the side, it's dark shadow falling over the paleness of his mask. The effect this had on me was astonishing; that tilt of his fedora; that delicate lift of brow; the light that shone against the uniqueness of his face, the curve of his lips and the mysterious scar across his temple. I suddenly felt a bit woozy, with legs that shook and threatened to lose balance, and breath that suddenly caught in my throat.

I had never before expected to feel such a wave of affection for a man hit me as hard as it crashed against me just then. But suddenly, irrevocably beyond my control, my heart turned over.

And without thinking, without the slightest inhibition in my mind, I rose to my tiptoes and wrapped my arms as tightly as I could about his shoulders. My fingers dug into the smooth fabric of his cloak, clinging to the feel of that cashmere softness as I burrowed my face against his neck, inhaling deeply the fresh scent of him, tightening my arms in frightening desperation.

For a moment he did not move; his arms stayed straight by his sides and his shoulders stiffened under my embrace; he cleared his throat, as if quite unsure what to do or say, as if this simple act of affection was so beyond him, a man whom I was coming to believe had never had the slightest bit of love shown to him. I doubted very much that anyone had so much as hugged him in his entire lifetime. And the thought brought on such compassion for him; brought on an even stronger wave of affection for him. My arms tightened as I pressed myself ever closer.

And then slowly, with such painstaking hesitance so evident it made my very heart ache for him, a hand slipped across the small of my back in the barest gesture of a one-armed hug. A sigh whispered past my lips as my eyes slid shut in radiant bliss.

Another sigh echoed with mine however, the caress of breath falling upon my ear as Erik's cheek lowered to rest next to mine, his lips so near the flesh of my ear as he sighed such heavenly contentment. And with the release of that sigh, his whole body seemed to relax against mine as his arm tightened around me, and the other came up to join it, holding me just as fiercely as I held him.

So badly I wanted to remember this moment; every smell and slightest sound; every least movement of his body and the soft fabric of his cloak; every single sensation that made up this moment. And I didn't think I would ever forget it. Even as our arms drifted away from each other, even as he took a small pace backward, his eyes intense upon mine, I could still hear that beautiful sigh of paradise echoing in my ears, I could still feel the strength of his arms around me and the slim feel of his body pressed to mine.

I smiled at him, just the barest little smile, and looked away to open the door; to do anything to help keep back the blush that begged to make my cheeks grow hot.

Stepping aside, I pressed my back against my open door, nodding to him as he moved past me, grinning at the eloquent bow he bestowed me. And then he was down the halls, almost entirely gone from my sight. I looked after him, my eyes alight with something I couldn't even begin to understand, and a smile still tugging at my lips.

I turned to my room, making a little sound of surprised delight in my throat as I considered this new set of circumstances; a moment that felt like the beginning of something vitally important. And it was then that I heard footsteps skipping down the hall, and felt a little figure suddenly barrel into my back.

"Mama," Mina sang in a taunting little voice, and I turned to see a devious little smile on her face. "You will not believe what I just read about! Madame Laroche has a book that topics on…who is that, mama?"

Her eyes had gone wide as saucers, and a little strangled hum of awe sounded in her throat as she pointed a shaking finger at something down the hall. But by the time I had turned, with dread rising in my heart at the prospect of seeing what I feared to see most of all right then, my eyes only caught the flash of a white mask, and the whisper of a cloak turning a corner, and then he was gone.


	9. Chapter Nine: Inevitable Discovery

**A/N: Oh my, oh my! It's January 20th and I have failed to update since January 1st! What you all must think of me!   
**

**Dreadfully sorry about that. Work and all of that, you know. How I wish money didn't exist, and we could all just spend our time doing whatever the hell we want to, like write all day, or take a quick trip to France, or go skydiving, or go kill all our exes. Ahh, now wouldn't that be nice. Mmm.**

**Anywho, here's the next chapter. And look! No dreadful cliffhanger like the last one had! Ain't I just swell? Mwah. I love you guys for reviewing. Oh, but please. Feed my vain self with even more reviews! This story has 3620 hits, so I **_**know**_** there's gotta be more people reading then there are reviewing. I would so love it if you would just say hello! Pretty please?**

**As for hellos, I would like to say hello to Sporky! Dear, dear Sporky, so nice to see your reviews again! I'm glad you found the story again, and I'm glad you're enjoying it. **

**Thanks to Barb for her beautiful editing. She gave me a great idea for the next chapter. Oooh, I love ideas, and I REALLY love Barb! **

**Hope you enjoy! This one withstood the least amount of change, to be honest. It always was one of my favorites anyway. Cheers! **

Chapter Nine: Inevitable Discovery

The very next night, I went to his apartment. So little time had passed since that inevitable moment of discovery, and yet by the end of the day it felt as if a century had passed. My voice had gone hoarse, my expression showed haggard with my absolute exhaustion of the night before; since that moment I had not slept the slightest bit, had not had a moment's private rest even in my own mind. His voice seemed to taunt me from all places, everywhere I went, and I was desperate to end this agony that had bestowed itself upon me.

And if that meant seeing Erik so soon, then so be it.

I waited the day out, eyes streaking to the clock every few minutes, as if begging for release from the monotonous happenings of daytime. I grew short with Mina numerous times that day; it being Sunday, she had the day off from her usual studious routine, and the child managed to turn up at every chamber I stepped into to clean, waiting for me inside with a feigned surprise that I should show up in the very same room as she. I was not so easily fooled, however; the fifth time this happened, as I listened and endured her ceaseless questions about this mysterious "masked man" that had appeared in the hall, I grew so irritated that I had shooed her from the room with a threatening scold flying past my lips, stating that if she did not stop these foolish inquiries, she really would regret it!

As her stubborn growl of fury echoed to me from behind the door, I shook my head and set myself to scrubbing the floor with renewed vigor. By the end of the day, my arms ached from the forceful aggression I had shown each floor and object in the house. I was so ready to collapse into bed, to forget my worries and just ease my pains, but I knew I would get no more sleep until I spoke with him. And so, after tucking Mina into bed with a forbidding "good night" that overpowered her still constant inquiries, I set out for his home.

But I still desperately needed time to think. Despite the long walk it would be, despite absolute bone-weariness, I made my way at a brisk pace, forgoing the idea of a cab so as to reflect on what I might say to him. I wondered, during my long trek to his home, what his reaction would be to the revelation that I had a daughter. And even worse, I wondered if his genius of a mind had worked out this problem already, and figured Mina out to be his very own child.

Desperately, I wanted to believe that he had not. That I still had time to lessen that blow and somehow tell him myself. And so, with a shiver, I pushed that thought from my mind.

So, if he had not already worked out the truth, what then should I do? Could I admit to him that not only did I have a daughter that I had not spoken of to him, but that my child was also his as well? Could I tell Erik he had a daughter, and endure whatever reaction it might garner?

The truth, the guilt-stricken truth of it all…was that I was not entirely certain if I could bear to tell him so soon; I did not think the words would make it so far past my dry and aching throat. My heart beat with an all-consuming and irrational terror at the thought that he might never forgive me for my treacherous lies…at the thought that he might leave me, and I would never, ever see him again.

Or, possibly even worse, that he might stay; not out of affection or love for myself or his new daughter, but entirely for this new obligation that I would be all but thrusting upon him. If he stayed, would I ever know that stayed because he truly loved me? Would I ever know if my daughter's heartrending loveliness and infectious self had been the cause? There would never be a moment when I would not question his love and need for us; I would forever believe he had stayed merely for duty. And I did not think I could bear the thought of living a life of such ambiguous uncertainty.

I could imagine it very easily; waking up every morning with him laying next to me; my heart dying just a little bit more each day; my mind consumed with bitter, self-loathing doubt.

I knew, in the bottom of my gut I knew…that I could not do it. I had to know, had to be absolutely certain of his love for me, his love for Mina. I had to be sure that he stayed for those reasons, and those alone.

And yet…I could never ask that of him. At least not yet, when even I did not know my true feelings for him. Did I love him? Did I want to spend forever with him?

Neither of us was ready for this. I shouldn't tell him; I wouldn't tell him! But then, if he asked, could I lie to him?

Allah, I just wanted to disappear; I wanted never to have to face these questions that ceaselessly preyed upon me. I wanted to scream, and cry, and stomp my feat in my absolute frustration and uncertainty.

Instead, however, I found myself outside of his flat, with a mind consumed by dread and a heart full of doubt and bitter guilt.

I looked up towards that lightless window, and vaguely, so vaguely, I thought I saw between the curtains an indistinct shadow of someone standing before it; I could almost see those piercing beams of golden light his eyes reflected; could almost feel the burning heat of it. In the bitter chill of night, my breath misted from my parted lips in little puffs of white fog as I stared up at that window, at the silhouette of a dark and towering form, my heart beating fast at the thought of his anger.

In a drug-like haze I walked towards the building, walked towards his room, dread slowing each step, questions hurtling through my mind as I walked with eyes clenched tightly shut, my hand skimming along the walls to keep myself sure of my path, like a blind woman heading towards her doom.

Was I the same woman that had walked a dark path to numerous masters; to the absolute monsters that made up the race of men? The same woman whose unfailing courage had reflected in the proud lift of her head and the defiant spark in her eyes, eyes wide open and never full of such doubt? How had I faced those deeds, those days of darkness, when I could not even face the thought of telling Erik about Mina?

And how could I fear such a thing? I loved her from the bottom of my heart; I was so completely and utterly proud of her, so joyous to call myself her mother. This should be the easiest moment of my life, admitting her, the girl that had shadowed my footsteps and changed my whole world.

But a voice, the barest whisper of a scared and tremulous voice, spoke in a corner of my mind, spoke its truest and most honest dread…_what if he doesn't love her? What if he doesn't want her?_

I didn't think I could bear that; I couldn't, for the sake of my daughter, I just couldn't.

And in that moment of deepest fear, I found myself before his door, hardly even daring to breathe as I brought a shaking fist up to knock quickly before I lost all courage.

Silence. No great sigh of annoyed but resigned welcome, no small sound of footsteps making their way to the door; nothing. I rested my forehead upon the unfinished, rough surface of the wooden door, tapping my fingernail lightly against the wall, waiting…waiting…

And then a voice: quiet, unemotional; like the feral hiss of a cat and a whisper of its deadly purr, spoke: "Come in, Ria." I couldn't help but to shiver as my fingers slowly curled around the knob, closing my eyes as I pushed that last shield of safety open.

As I came through, my legs hardly able to keep balance, I was met with the sight of Erik's back. He stood before the window, just as I had known he was, his back straightened with poised severity, his wrists crossed behind his back and his hands clenched into tight fists. He didn't turn nor even so much as acknowledge my presence as the door clicked shut behind me; he didn't utter a word as I cleared my throat with uncertainty. I leaned against the door, staring upon his tall form as he continued to look out the window.

We stayed like that for endless moments, neither of us moving or speaking, until I thought I could hardly bear it anymore. Just as I was opening my lips and praying for the courage to speak, he himself spoke.

"That girl…she is your daughter, is she not?"

I nodded quickly, eyes wide in my fear, before I realized with a wince that he was not looking at me; I murmured a small whisper of shaken assent, hating myself for the weak tremor in my voice.

He was silent again; so silent I could hear the small click of the clock that hung above the fireplace, and the faint sound of people outside, below his window. I prayed to Allah, sent up my fervent whisper of hope…_please, please do not let him ask…please do not make me lie to him_…

"And do you know who her father is?"

I wanted to curse and yell at him; wanted to hit him for ruining everything! Why did he have to ask, why? If only he had been content that she was mine, if only he wasn't so damned curious, I would not have to lie!

But what if he knew already? What if he very well determined that she was his? He was a genius, after all, and even an idiot could have recognized the musicality in that sweet little voice; even a fool would have known those big, amber eyes to be his own. If I lied, he would know, and then…oh, then I feared the absolute heights of his outrage. Enormous guilt spread over me at the thought, but I could not help it. I was terrified of his anger.

_It cannot be helped. You will have to lie, Ria, and pray to Allah that he does not know the truth_.

I buried my face in my hands, shook my head as if to clear my mind of the jumbled mess it was in, as questions and insults and desperate prayers shouted themselves at me. From that very first day, at the Opera Garnier, when I had foolishly stumbled upon him, I had dreaded this moment. Telling him the truth could very well force us into a loveless, bitter marriage. Would I do that to him? Would I do that to myself? Could I even bear it?

Or would I lie? Lie to the man to whom I had given my innocence; the man that gave me such a gift that I was saved from my bitter life of slavery.

And there was that image again; that painful little picture of the life I had envisioned earlier; the image of an obligatory marriage to Erik.

_Oh, Allah…he will hate me if I forced that upon him_.

I would not live my life in painful ambiguity with a man who would grow to despise me. I couldn't bear knowing that the boundless passion of the man I knew would be reduced to compulsory embraces before polite salutations over the breakfast table. Could I subject him to that? Could I even think of subjecting my daughter to such a mockery of existence?

_But I want to tell him so badly. I know he would love her. I know it!_

But I selfishly quelled that thought; myself be damned, I could not do that to either of them!

_Erik, forgive me_.

"No," I whispered; and my voice sounded more hopeless, more broken and bitter than it ever had before. "I do not."

And maybe, just maybe, it was not exactly a lie; I tried to convince myself of that as my shoulders slumped in defeat, and a small pool of guilty tears welled beneath my closed eyes. Tried to tell myself that truly, Erik and I barely knew each other in any case, as absurd as the circumstances made that seem. I told myself repeatedly, desperately, as I tried to blink back the tears, that I did not truly know Mina's father.

I only knew that I was hopelessly falling for him. Suddenly, irrevocably, and as insane as it might seem, but I was falling nonetheless.

With a deep breath I opened my eyes, beat back the crystalline shine that reflected in my dark eyes, steadied myself to face his reaction. And I think that moment, this evidence of his reaction, was perhaps the worst moment I had faced that day. For his shoulders suddenly relaxed with the heavy exhale of his breath; his absolute sigh of relief.

_Relief_.

A horrible pain seared through my gut at the sight of his utmost relief; I grasped my stomach from the pain, not quite able to contain the wheeze of hurt breath that squeezed its way past my throat, singing past my lips in its agony as I braced a shaking hand against the top of the piano I stood next to.

Was he relieved that he was not a father? That he was not bound to me for all eternity?

I suddenly felt so horrid with myself, both at the thought of his relief, and even worse at the fact that I had just lied to him. _Lied to him_. I, who had always tried to speak the honest, blunt truth, had lied. The pool of tears that gathered in my eyes grew thicker and thicker. My lips pursed, my gaze went skyward to stare at the dull, wooden ceiling that graced the room, my lids desperately tried to beat back the onslaught of tears. But as I closed my burning eyes, one pesky little drop of crystal still fell; dripped its way down my cheek to showcase my crushing guilt and hurt.

And then I felt one single, icy cold finger flit against my cheek, whisper across my skin in a tender gesture of brushing that tear away. And then it tucked under my chin, raising my face as my eyes slowly opened, tears still shining in the bleak darkness that lurked there; and I could not help but to gaze at him with my all-consuming helplessness; I could not shadow my plight of misery.

There was a sadness in his eyes that I was sure was reflected in my own gaze; and that, I think, is what finally, truly, undid me. Every defense, every wall that I had painstakingly built inside myself to hold back how absolutely broken I was, to keep in the childish tears that I had held back since the day I realized my father was never coming back, they all came crashing down as I looked into those eyes of purest gold, gazing at me with such compassion.

My bottom lip trembled, and I drew in a desperate breath to stop my foolish urge to weep and never stop, but my guilty heart would not allow it.

I was nothing more than a crumbling wreck before him.

And in a surprising move, his arms came around my shoulders, pulling me against him. I could not stop myself from burrowing my face against his chest. One of my hands wound its way around his waist, while the other clutched desperately at his cravat, almost undoing the delicate knot. And a choked sob bubbled up from my constricted throat, whispered its way past my lips as my shoulders shook under his hands. And I took such comfort in that embrace as his arms tightened around me, as if only he were holding me together, healing up the broken pieces that I was made of. And yet I continued to cry silently against his chest, my tears soaking the silken material of his waistcoat as the tenderness of his embrace further undid me.

I felt like a simpering, blubbering, foolish little child; but I could not cease my endless waves of grief. Grief unto which, until now, I had not surrendered. Every tear that rolled down my cheek represented a memory of another night in the bed of a stranger. Every crystal drop fell because of my incapability to be a proper mother to Mina, the one light that shone in my eternal darkness. Each quiet sob that racked through my body shivered with the guilty regret I felt about my unbearable lie to Erik.

Each drop…each pitiful little tear…burned with the hurt my father had put upon me when he left me in that place; when he left me all alone in a bitter world.

A life without a father; a fate that I very well might be subjecting Mina to as well.

My shoulders shook under the weight of my grief, and even Erik's as well. The horrible past he must have known, the dreadful things he was forced to do, just as I had been forced; guilt for the brave spark of light that I was denying him. I was crying for myself, and I was crying for him.

And I knew, with another sob that shuddered through my body, that this moment, this inevitable moment, would mean the loss of his trust. For I knew that as soon as he found out the truth, he would never, ever trust me again.

_Why are you lying to him? Why must you live in this constant misery? You could be happy, Ria. You could be happy!  
_

But it was far too late to change my mind and speak the truth, even had I wanted to. And so I spent endless moments letting those tears pour from the deepest place of my suddenly cold heart, both savoring and despairing at the feeling of his arms around me. With my voice still choked from the unending tears, I finally spoke.

"I am…s-sorry I did not tell you," I sobbed quietly, each word stuttered through the force of my tears.

Erik stiffened, as if awaking from this spell of wondrous comfort, and disentangled himself from me, his face gone stern as he looked upon mine.

"And why did you not tell me?"

For a moment I didn't answer him, only avoided his gaze as I stepped away from him, my fingers desperately wiping away the tracks of tears that had formed down my cheeks. I removed my cloak to keep myself somewhat occupied, rubbing my arms briskly, as if to warm the cold that had seeped back into my heart.

"I suppose I was scared." The answer finally found its way past my lips as my eyes grudgingly returned to his.

"Scared?" he repeated softly, and furrowed his brow. One of his hands balled tightly into a shaking fist. "Surely you would not think that I would harm a child," he hissed passionately, anger simmering in his eyes like billowing clouds of stormy gold.

I started violently, my face snapping back to his as I shook my head repeatedly. "No," I almost shouted my fervent answer, then cleared my throat and tried again in a softer voice. "No, Erik, nothing like that. I just…I was scared that if you knew, you would not want to see me again," I finished in barely a whisper, my cheeks flushed from my embarrassment as I confessed my selfish desires.

He seemed at a loss for words at that; his lips parted just slightly, his intake of breath shook from his shock. I swallowed, looked away from him and stared absently at the soft velvet blankets atop his bed. Vaguely, my eyes followed the flicker of shadows over the deep red material, watched as the flames from the nearby fireplace sent a slithering light to spill across the surface in a passionate dance of seduction. It brought a picture to mind of the night that had started this whole mess; the arch of a back and the curl of pale fingers around a waist; flames that had sent a licking heat up the body and enticed a grin of pleasure to spread across ones features. A shiver traveled up my spine, and I looked away, staring at the floor instead.

"Foolish, isn't it?" A small smile twitched at the corner of my lips at my words, as if by smiling I could make this whole situation seem a mere joke.

He was silent for a seemingly endless moment; I was desperate to look upon him, and yet I could not seem to force myself to see. It was almost a relief when he spoke again.

"You did not tell me," he said in a voice that sounded dry with its disbelief, "because you wanted to stay…with me?" I looked up to see a skeptical look upon his face, his eyes narrowed as they regarded me.

The distrust in his voice left my heart breaking for him, made it unfreeze just a little bit as my eyes softened. I stepped closer to his tall, almost vulnerable looking figure. I desperately wanted him to understand that he need not think that his company was such a bad thing for the likes of me.

"Oh, Erik," I murmured, my voice thick with compassion; my hand slowly rose to brush against the edge of his white mask. "Why do you think so lowly of yourself?"

But he only shrugged my hand away.

"That, Ria," he said, turning his back to me, "is for reasons I fear you will never understand."

And with that, my question was left unanswered. But I would not let him get away from me so easily. I stepped up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face into his stiff back, breathing deeply and sighing away my sadness. My fingers stroked his stomach gently, as if to massage the so evident tension out of him; willing him to open up to me, if only just a little.

But instead of relaxing, he seemed to grow ever more tense under my touch. One of his hands reached back and clutched my skirts in his palm, his rigid fingers tangling in the fabric ruthlessly, and his head dipped forward. A low, lust-filled groan sounded from his lips.

And I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of power over him.

What had started as my own need to comfort him, to show him that his face and past did not matter to me, had quickly become a fierce need to know that he still wanted me.

Allah help me, I wanted him to _burn_ for me.

As one of my hands continued its path along his stomach, my other hand reached up to his cravat, plucking the little pin from its folds and dropping it to the ground, fingers proceeding to easily untie the already loose knot. I slipped the little piece of silken cloth from around his collar and let it flutter to the floor as I rose on my toes as high as I could, my lips finding their way to his neck, delicately kissing along the cold, pale skin there. His neck bowed back to allow his head to lean against my shoulder, and I heard that strangled little sound again, sighing past his lips to reflect his urgent desire. My head tipped forward to allow my lips access to the side of his throat, kissing a path along his flesh.

I could not seem to make myself stop this trek into unending longing; I could not seem to help myself. Right from the start, on that very first night, our relationship had been based off of desire; had caved in to that urgent pool of heat in a night of wicked passion and left each of us desperate for a touch that had long since been denied. I so loathed those thoughts, and yet it seemed they would always be all I knew. Since that first night, we had been condemned to always want these moments, dooming a relationship that had perhaps had a shy chance of innocence, but instead remained as a dark and twisted affair.

So I continued to kiss along his jaw, reveling this newfound control that I had, encompassed in the sheer bliss of it, and one of my hands slid up to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. I stepped back from his body as I pushed the vest to the floor, allowing my hands to skim over his slim hips as I turned him around, pushing him back until he fell into one of the wooden chairs at the table. My skirts traveled up to reveal my knees as my legs found their way to either side of his, and I could not help the devilish grin that spread across my lips at the throaty groan that escaped him as I sat atop his lap.

Long fingers clung to my hips desperately, their urgent grip fiercely pressing my lower body against his. My lips moved to kiss each corner of his own just as my fingers parted the folds of his smooth white shirt; fingernails scraped along the firm expanse of his chest as my insatiable tongue traced the bow of his upper lip, eliciting another groan from him; my lips pressed hard against his in a fervent kiss, teeth nipping at his bottom lip as I savored in that deep-throated growl of his.

And suddenly my hand upon his chest was covered by his own, and as we kissed it seemed all my control, all my wicked power, was taken over by him. With my fingers hidden under his coaxing hand, he started to guide mine along his body, past his chest and the hardness of his abdomen, going lower…lower…

And with the loss of that control, I suddenly felt ashamed of myself; sickened and angry and dirty. I broke away from him, falling back until I was sprawled across the floor in a tangle of hefty skirts. My hand quickly rose to cover my mouth, and my stomach churned with nausea.

Memories of my past were all I saw before me; I closed my eyes against the images, but still I saw the faces of so many men, merciless in their desire, hurting me so badly; still I felt the waves of shame that I might partake in such a thing again. I clutched at my face helplessly, my nails digging into my skin as I shook my head back and forth. Revulsion surged through my veins at the memories, still fresh after so many tiresome years.

_How could I think to commit such an act again?_

I looked up, panic written across my face; my only desire right then was to leave; leave and never come back. I could not do this. I could not face this constant torment. But when I stared ahead of me, rising to tell Erik that I must leave, he was no longer seated before me. I heard the delicate clearing of a throat behind me, and I stared towards the door in confusion, eyes taking in the impatient figure of Erik, holding my cloak open and gesturing expectantly towards the door. His intention was obvious; he wanted me to leave as well.

My legs shook unsteadily as I walked towards him, and despite my shame and humiliation, I felt an unsurpassable cruelty over my behavior. What must he think of me? I opened my lips, desperate to explain, but he cut me off.

"If you are so revolted by me, Madame, you needed but to tell me, my dear, and I would have stopped." And even as I shook my head in denial, I felt shame for the anger and hurt in his angel's voice. Shame that I had caused him to think such a thing; for had I not just proved to him that it was true, what he had always thought of himself?

I tried to speak as I reached my hands out towards him in supplication, but he only shook me off and continued his tirade, not caring to hear even a word from my lips.

"After all, what person with any hold on their mental faculties would partake in anything with such a hideous monster as myself?"

"Erik, I-"

"What I cannot seem to comprehend, as ludicrous as that sounds, is why you would even begin such a thing at all. I suppose it is merely your natural instinct. Or were you perhaps trying to earn money for your child, and in the end you just could not bring yourself to sleep with a beast like me again?"

My eyes narrowed dangerously, and fury surged through my veins. How dare he! I might have forgiven the heated words spoken about me in his despair, but how _dare_ he bring Mina into this?

I brought up my hand to slap him, a purely maternal instinct to defend my child rising in my breast as an outraged sound I hardly recognized tore free from my throat. But in the blink of an eye his hand encircled my wrist, halting me. I tried to jerk my hand away from his, but his grip was brutal, like the dangerous hold of a python as it curled its length around its prey with deadly strength.

"Not this time, my dear."

I growled furiously at him again, trying to step back. "Let me go this instant! I want to leave."

"Not until I hear the truth. Is your child the only reason you have been keeping up this charade? You had better speak honestly, Madame, and speak quickly. I am losing my patience with you."

A bitter laugh clawed up my throat, a hoarse, hysterical laugh my ears had never heard released from these lips of mine. The truth! He wanted the truth? Hardly. The truth of it all was that Mina was his daughter, and right then I was sure he did not want to hear that. Would he even believe me now if I told him?

His grip tightened on my wrist as his eyes narrowed at me, silencing my laughter until I was only left glowering at him, angry patches of red forming on my cheeks, my eyes fierce from their glare.

"No, that is _not_ the reason. _My_ daughter and I don't need your help."

For a moment we simply glared at each other. When he didn't say anything, I continued, voice coaxed to rising ever higher by the unrelenting streak of hysteria that had taken control of me.

"Can you not understand how hard it is for me to be with a man, Erik? I cannot kiss you without remembering everything else that happened in Persia. I cannot help remembering and…I…I…can't. I just cannot do it. I thought perhaps I could but it all behind me, I thought I could try, and I can't."

I blinked angrily as more tears pooled into my eyes; and here I thought I was done with crying. But even as I beat back those tears I saw a sudden flicker of guilt cross his face, only just overshadowing his anger.

"Then why did you-"

"I'm not perfect, Erik," I cried out in a wobbly voice, wishing he could understand my uncertainty, wishing he could forgive my weakness. "When I'm around you, I can almost forget. It is as if you take away all those memories, and make me feel…I…I do not know what, precisely. I just feel…different."

_I feel whole_.

His fingers released my wrist as I spoke, and I hid my shaking hands behind my back and watched warily as one of his fingers rose to trace the not-quite-faded tracks of my tears from earlier. I sniffled lightly, my heart twisting in my chest. "It scares me," I finally whispered, staring fixedly away from him.

And that was nothing but the undeniable truth. The control his voice had over me, the way just the slightest twitch of those lips, the subtle arch of his brow, could make me want to give myself to a man again frightened me. I was little more than an ill-used, broken toy; a girl with a damaged heart and a mind that lost its grip on reality more and more every day, driven to insanity by my loneliness, and my memories. But when I was around him, I was a different person. And I had not a clue as to why.

Erik heaved a great sigh; a sound I was growing accustomed to hearing, so much that even in my dreams I heard that dreamy whisper. I looked up at him shyly, biting my lip as he took my wrist again and led me towards the table. With a firm push, he had me settled onto a chair, and then he walked towards one of the cabinets, pulling forth a decanter of dark, amber-colored liquid.

A glass was set before me, filled halfway with thick liquor. I picked it up, sniffing delicately and wrinkling my nose at the bitter smell of it. Glancing up to see Erik throw back a quick gulp, I shrugged my shoulders, sent up a small prayer to Allah that he might forgive a poor girl her sins (_what could one sip hurt, after all, _I thought to myself), and took a small sip; my face screwed up at taste.

And when I glanced back at Erik, my eyes narrowed, I think he tried to smile at me; though, on him, he still rather appeared to be frowning.

And then he started to laugh.


	10. Chapter Ten: The Irony of Ignorance

A/N: So sorry, so sorry! My delays are, at times, truly inexcusable. I will merely mention that I recently moved into a new apartment one weekend, and on top of that I had to wait for internet hookup, and even more on top of that I helped my sister move the next weekend. Between moving and work, there just hasn't been much me time. Regrettable, of course, but necessary. Now if only my dishes would disappear! I haven't had time to really wash them since the move. AHH!

Anyway, here's the next chapter (obviously, otherwise why would you be reading this?). Took me awhile to finally get this one to semblance at least some form of right. I've never been particularly fond of this chapter. But I feel, this time, that I finally nailed it. Tell me your thoughts!

And thank you to my fantabulous beta, Barb, for great work she does! She got it back to me AGES ago, but I just haven't had time to finish editing and post it. Sorry, Barb!

By the way, does anyone else have EXTREME problems with getting bold and italic letters to STAY bold or italic when they upload chapters on ffn, or what? This time, when I tried to get my author's note bold, it wouldn't even let me! I've just about had enough of it! Dammit.

Anyway...

Chapter Ten: The Irony of Ignorance

I peeked up at Erik nervously from beneath my lashes, watching as he took another swig of the thick liquor; he'd informed me the bitter-tasting stuff was called brandy, a favorite among the men. Once the prankster had finished with his hysterics over my…reaction…to the liquor, he'd taken my glass for his own, praise be to Allah, and set before me a delicate looking glass of rich, garnet-colored wine. I had yet to taste it; I had yet to even loose the tension that had settled in my shoulders, or to rid myself of the scarlet flame of embarrassment that still spread hotly across my cheeks whenever the merest thought of what had almost occurred played itself out in my mind.

It was hard to ignore the images, hard to forget. When Erik had first set the new glass before me, his hand a picture of eloquence and refinement as he gave an elegant sweep towards the glass, gesturing with obvious intent that he wished for me to taste it, I could not help but imagine the feeling of that hand upon mine, guiding it along the body I had ached so much to touch, and in the end, had not been able to touch; not when the shadows of my past had started their devious creep into my mind to ensnare me with their terror and revulsion. With that hand, pale and long-fingered, came a thousand memories, each more wonderful and terrifying than the next. Memories of a time almost entirely forgotten, when one scared, foolhardy girl had taken it upon herself to give a monster one night of human kindness, to give a beast his only glance at beauty. They were memories that made me want to laugh and cry all at once. With each memory, I ached to give in; I longed to relive that time, when one moment had seemed an eternity; when for one night, but one night only, I had been his.

My eyes, dark and thoughtful, studied his profile; he was staring obstinately at the wall. I couldn't help but wonder at the realization that I was starting to trust this man. _Really _trust him. It seemed as if, quite suddenly, it was myself that I didn't trust so much anymore. After all, I had already proven that I could fall so easily prey to the stirrings of flesh and temptation. After what I had started, how could I blame him for reacting as he had? The fault was entirely my own; the blame directed, dead center, at myself.

My actions had been, for that one infinitesimal moment, purely instinct; in that one instant the past had gone away, and in its place it had left a woman who, for the merest of time, had felt brave again. I had come so close to giving in; come so close to pushing my fears aside and letting temptation take the lead. But much as I ached to, much as I so longed to give in, the shadows had come back to grip my mind, and I had not been able to. Not yet, at least.

I was not, however, much as I hated to admit it to myself, entirely oblivious to his charms. My blood stirred each time that brow arched in my direction. My body yearned for his touch each time that hand moved with all the grace of poised regality. His hands, pale and thin as they were, moved with such sensuous capability, it would seem only a fool would not notice it. I supposed, with a smile, that rather made him the fool then.

I was completely aware of his nearness; my ears tuned to the steady sound of his breathing, my body conscious of how tensely he held his shoulders, so close he was. So badly I wanted to breach whatever space was left between us and feel his lips upon mine again. Each time our eyes met, I could read the same message in those golden depths. The air was still hot with tension, and the sudden quiet did little to ease it.

I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath, coaxing myself to relax. Slowly, as I let my breath out in one long, dragging exhale, my shoulders drooped down. I took another breath, and heard Erik following my lead as each of us let out our nervousness. Another smile lifted my lips. And then finally his voice broke the awkward void of silence.

"You really should try the drink, my dear."

My eyes moved away from his severe presence and glared suspiciously at the glass; I wasn't over-keen to taste anymore of what he called the "delectable wonders forbidden to your very Muslim self."

Fingers handled the fragile flute of the glass carefully as I picked it up and brought it to my nose for a sniff.

_Mmm_…my thoughts seemed to purr with delight from the scent that wafted through my nose. _Oh, but that smells wondrously good_…

It was a heavy smell; thick with the scent of dark, sweet fruits. But there was something else to it besides that tang of enticing forbidden fruit, something deeper; a barely discernable hint of spice, and some earthy smell that made its aroma all the more luscious. My tongue darted out to lick at my lips.

I glanced at Erik again; he had been watching me very closely, his eyes hooded and a slight half-smile quirking at his lips. "What is this?"

"A bordeaux._Cabernet Sauvignon_, a very…interesting taste; I think you might like it."

I brought the rim of the glass to my lips, eyes closing in anticipation as I tipped it back and sipped a fair amount from its crystalline edge. The taste was as thick and rich as it's aroma had promised it would be; I could taste that sweet flavor of fruit as it burst across my tongue, followed by a strange sort of earthy spice that I could not, for the life of me, properly describe. I swirled the dark, exotic taste in my mouth, savoring its tangy richness before allowing the liquid to slip, just as easy as you please, down my throat. This time I voiced my satisfaction with that pleased little purr.

"Mmm…"

"Yes, as I said; delectable, is it not?"

"Oh, yes," I murmured, eyes still closed, tongue darting out again to run over my lips so as to better relish the delicious taste that still clung to them. I brought the glass up for another sip...well, perhaps it was slightly more than a sip. It was strong, very strong; perhaps the most potent thing I had ever tasted. But then, I didn't have much experience with fine wine, didn't have any at all really, for never before had I allowed liquor to pass through these lips of mine.

"But perhaps I should not besmirch your Muslim customs so, my dear lady." And his hand began to reach for the glass that I held like a precious jewel between my fingertips. "You really should not be having that, now. What could I have been thinking?"

There was a certain smugness to his tone at that question, for as his hand had come to prize the treat away, I had risen from my seat, walking casually to the considerable bookshelf that took up one wall. I took another sip, smaller this time, a poised and controlled sip, and gazed at the books that lined the shelves as if it had been my every intention to step over here; as if I had hardly heard a word he said and merely stepped over for a bit of a stroll, to stretch my legs so to speak, rather than to escape that sly hand of his. Listlessly, I trailed a finger across a few titles, ignoring the slight chuckle emitted from behind me.  
_  
_

_The man does stand a good point, Ria. You really aren't allowed t-_

_Don't care don't care don't care…_

The simple matter of it all remained that I was captivated with the taste that swirled across my tongue with each sip. Never had I experienced something so grand in Persia; never had I been allowed to drink such spirits before. Allah forgive me, but it was just too delightful scenting that rich aroma laden with its dark flavors, too scrumptious tasting the dark fruit upon my tongue, simply just too…too, well, as Erik said, 'altogether exceedingly delectable.'

"How came you by all these books, Erik?" It was voiced like a thing of wonder. All these books, in one tiny little room, ranging from culture to culture, changing from language to language. To be certain, Mistress _did_ have a lot of books in that great library of hers. But she was a Comtess: it was to be expected with all the wealth she possessed. I had no idea Erik was so-

"Ah, well; here and there. I dabble in much, you'll find."

_Oh, I'll just bet you do_, thoughts ran through my mind as a grim little smile tugged at my lips. _A composer, a singer and musician, a murderer, a connoisseur of good wine and books, and I can just imagine what else_…

His elegant little Siamese cat darted around my legs with a hiss and a swat, then scurried away. My eyes caught the flashy sparkle of her collar, and brought to mind the shah and his outrage when that prized jeweled collar had gone astray. _Oh, yes. And thievery._ My eyes rolled at the thought of his ever-growing list of leisurely pursuits.

"Right, because thievery and murder are merely leisurely pursuits," I mumbled to myself with a snort, and gave a start as Erik's hand landed on my shoulder.

"What was that, my dear?"

"I said, have you any books written in Persian?"

"Hmm." The hand lifted from my shoulder, and one pale finger traced across the line of books, his brow furrowed as he read the titles; the finger stopping upon a likely looking book: plain in its dark cover, and rather thick indeed. "Here, you might enjoy this tale. Perhaps you can read it to the – to your child."

I was more than happy accept anything he might have so as to distract myself from the feeling his hand upon my shoulder had set off inside me, some tingling little warmth that spread through my belly and set my legs to shaking; I'd barely contained my sigh of relief as his hand had lifted to browse through the numerous books. Those fingers, long and chill, awoke thoughts and feelings that were best left sleeping. My hands came out to accept the tome he offered, and despite my efforts of control, I couldn't help but shiver as one finger brushed against mine in the exchange. I chanced a quick glance up to his face, and the heated look his eyes sent me seemed to say his thoughts were following along the same lines as mine. My gaze quickly dropped back down to the book.

My lips fell open in surprised delight as my eyes caught sight of the small, gold words that adorned its front. '_Amir Arsalan_', it read, by Muhammad 'Ali Naqib al-Mamalik. It was indeed a treasure; I had heard, rather briefly, of this tale. It was a story told by this al-Mamalik, at the court of Nasr-ed-Din Shah, though in truth it was the shah's daughter, Fachr-ed-Douleh, who had transcribed this story to thus transcend all time. A grand tale, one of raging wars and blind love and deepest magic, a courageous epic that depicted a wily young boy who takes control of the kingdom that should have rightfully been his, and falls in love along the way; Arsalan, and his fetching woman, Farokh Lagha. It surprised me that Erik should have such a book full of hope, and love, and goodness, with an end so victoriously triumphant. Was he not, after all, a man that knew no more than darkness and hatred; nothing but loss and a terrible ache, such as I myself only knew?

But I wasn't complaining. When first I heard a bit of this tale, brief as the small snippet I heard had been, my mind was captivated by it. It would be a joy to know the whole story. And I knew Mina would love it dearly. Perhaps I could, as Erik said, read it to her myself. A smile lifted my features, and I looked up at Erik. It seemed he had gained control over himself as well, for his eyes bore the same calm, expressionless gaze they usually had.

"Thank you," I murmured softly, my eyes, for once, alight. "I think Mina would enjoy it very much."

"Mina?"

"My daughter. I have always been rather partial to that name."

That, indeed, was quite true. Though I couldn't quite remember where I had once heard it, it was one that had always been there, deep in my heart. One I had, with never a shred of doubt or moments thought, given my daughter the instant they had lain her in my arms.

My faint smile grew with the memories of that day, so fresh and intense and pure. It seemed not all my recollections were the stuff of nightmares, for there was ever that steady candle of light burning true and bright to keep out the shadows: my daughter…_our_ daughter.

"Tell me about her."

I glanced at him in surprise, and perhaps a little in fear as well. I was uncertain how much to tell him, careful not to say more than I should, give away too much, lest he realize my secret. Oh, but I wanted to tell him about her, if only to have the opportunity to let him know his daughter, no matter that he would think only of her as mine. No matter that it could scarcely mean a thing to him, as I had not told him the truth. But despite not telling him that she was his, this…this, I wanted to tell. _Had_ to tell. It seemed imperative that he know her first, before ever I told him the truth of who she was.

And so we found ourselves seated back at the table; the book settled precariously on my lap and the glass of wine held in my fingers, and I spoke. I told him of my daughter, his daughter – _our_ daughter, and I drank and drank deeply, and Erik refilled my glass, not saying much at all, just listening as I spoke of the lovely girl that brightened my darkness and filled my life with meaning, her youth a vivid, shining light to keep back the black thoughts of despair; a girl that dazzled all and brought smiles to faces as she went about the day with an enduring happiness and will to live that was so utterly beyond me. And slowly, so slowly, the smallest little seed of doubt was sown in my heart.

Was I doing the right thing in not telling him the truth yet? Did he not deserve his life to be changed as mine had been? Did he not deserve to have that sweet picture of hope before him, no matter if he wasn't ready for it yet? Oh, by Allah, why could things just not be simple?

_That is not the way of things, Ria. You know that. You knew that ever before you met this man. And you knew it would be difficult, hiding the truth from such a one as he. You are finding out, now, just how hard_.

_Push those thoughts away, far, far away. Speak only of the good things, let your words paint a picture for him of the way life could be,_ would _be, when he is ready. Then, and only then, may you tell him that she is his. _

So I spoke of our little daughter, though I rather imagined he could hardly have cared. And that, perhaps, was the saddest part of all.

* * *

He wasn't listening, not really. More or less, he was entranced just by watching her, and her words rolled past him as his eyes devoured her. A delicate hand here, swept aside in elegant gesture; a quirky brow there, raised in contemplation as she considered her small daughter; a smile, the first real one he had seen her give, upon the thought of the girl that remained foremost in her thoughts. 

"Oh, Erik," she whispered, in a tone that caught his attention, and brought him back to what she spoke, "she's the most darling girl. She's always so affectionate and sweet, always smiling; she dazzles everyone with her smiles, and her carefree ways. And smart, too. So smart."

Her voice had grown thick with pride, her expression dazed, doubtless seeing the bright vision she painted for him. It was almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. "I can hardly keep anything from the perceptive little dear. And, oh, she's always so willing to learn! When I was only six, I was never that smart." She straightened her back with motherly boasting, as if daring him to contradict her. "She has a multitude of tutors, and each has told me how quickly she has excelled in her lessons. _She_ can already read books from Madame's library that I struggled with when I was twice her age."

The words she uttered were stirring a peculiar suspicion in him, though he wasn't really certain as to what. A pair of grim-set lips frowned in thought, but she didn't notice. She only continued to speak of her little Mina with such fiery adoration that it was nigh impossible not to see how much good the child had done for her.

But there was something about her words that was strikingly familiar to him. Something that he could not lightly shrug aside, no matter how he tried. Something…something…nothing, it was nothing. It was like trying to grasp at tendrils of smoke, like chasing ghosts of the past: useless. Best to leave it alone. Erik sat back with a careless shrug and continued to watch her, but his thoughts, they were far away indeed. The grip he held on his glass attested to his anger easily enough, if frowning brow and simmering eyes had not already. Anger, it seemed, was this man's constant companion.

Not that he was angry with her; not anymore, at least. Oh, but he was furious with the men who had done this to her; broken her so badly that she could not even remain in the same room with a man without nerves and suspicion crippling her; men who had left a scar deep upon her shaken spirit that would not easily be erased, perhaps maybe never. Erik was absolutely outraged; he had never come to accept the customs and lives of the average Persian, but he had at least been able to live with it; but now, how he _despised_ them all.

Clenching his jaw, Erik could not help but imagine how pleasurable it would be to kill those men, each and every one of them that had done this to her. To feel that precious surge of adrenaline and gratification as their lives were snuffed out by the power of his hands. If the opportunity ever presented itself, he would gladly murder them, gladly snap their necks with a flick of his lethal catgut. How he longed to feel their faceless blood on his hands for taking away her youth by impregnating her.

The child's father. That was a man who had set his own death sentence the moment he had first taken her. His name was one Erik would put much stock in, a name that would soon lead to such a man's destruction.

Well, that was certainly _one_ solution. Kill the man, and take the woman for his own. But that still left the child. Who was she; who was her father? A deep unease still preyed upon his thoughts; suspicion that Ria was keeping something vitally important from him. Erik's eyes slid shut for a brief moment, and his fingers rose to the bare side of his face to rub his temple there, as if to erase the circular mental dialogue that would not cease to give up. After all, it hardly seemed that important in the end. It was just a child; what could she matter to him?

_Perhaps more important than you think_, a little voice seemed to speak up in the back of his mind. And that was true enough. Erik opened his eyes to look back at Ria, taking notice of the newfound life and purpose in her eyes, like a sudden spark of fiery devotion that lit those obsidian surfaces to a brave, dark flame; it was obvious that much of Ria's purpose revolved around her small daughter. Any man in her life would, naturally, have much to do with the little whirlwind she described.

He wasn't sure he liked the idea too much. No, he didn't like the idea at all. Him? Taking care of a child? Hardly! A father was something he never wanted to be. And yet…and yet, as she spoke, he fought hard to quell a voice that spoke in the back of his mind, clamoring to be heard in its jealous shout to mankind, in it's anger at the men who had done this, had taken what was his; a voice that yelled, _this child should have been mine! _

With a look of alarm on his face, Erik sat up stiffly, and any attention that had been on Ria's prattling instantly evaporated. That was the very last thing he should be thinking of. Ria and her daughter would never be his, and it was absolutely foolish to think otherwise.

Was he not, after all, a monster? A beast of absolute depravity that did nothing but wreak misery and pain? Such a man had no right to keep them, neither of them. In the end, they would be taken from him, or perhaps his face would accord them the means to leave all on their own, and of that he was certain.

Oh, but he wanted her. His eyes moved to regard the little figure that sat next to him, her lips tugged up in a soft, sweet smile, her eyes alight with joy; what he wouldn't give to see her look at _him_ like that. Torrents of words and praise poured from her smiling lips, and as much as talkative people annoyed Erik, it all seemed rather endearing with Ria; for once, he was quite hard-pressed not to smile back at her. But he managed; the usual frown he wore still graced his grim continence, though perhaps with a little less severity than before.

Couldn't he keep her? Just for a little while? That was not too much to ask for, surely. And then…and then, when it had been deemed that he'd had enough of the happiness he was ever going to have, they would leave. And he? He would carry on, as he had done after Christine, though the thought of it made him weary; so very, very weary.

He studied her features, as if to credit the slightest detail to memory, as if at any moment she, too, would be taken from him. Those iridescent golden eyes saw much; caught the quirk of her dark brow, and the slight flare of her small nose; observed the rare, gentle smile of her lips, and the dimple that graced her left cheek, only the left; watched the impatient flicking of fingers to hair as one wayward curl of raven dark hair fell into her eyes, and did so again as soon as her fingers had moved away. Those eyes devoured the angular face, with its willful chin and thin cheeks, and saw irrepressible strength in those features; a strength that had helped her survive and keep courage. But her eyes looked tired, as if the years had been a toll upon her that was almost beyond endurance; the beautiful, midnight gaze had grown fey, as if the thought of the future years to come made her almost too exhausted to continue.

And suddenly a frown settled between her brows, and turned the lips down to an altogether delectable looking pout; Ria's voice tapered off as she gazed at the wall behind him.

"Admittedly, I do not often have as much time as I would rather like, to spend with her." Her voice was grudging, her little frame sinking back into her chair as her expressive hands fell to rest silently in her lap. "I'm always so terribly busy with my chores, and when I'm not doing those, I'm much too exhausted to do much of anything else." The little pout of a frown deepened into something much more forbidding.

"Sometimes I look at her and I'm surprised at how much she's grown. She'll be a young lady before I know it, being courted by some young man." She gave a shudder, and her arms wrapped around her waist in a rather protective manner, as if the thought stood no bearing whatsoever.

"I have lost so much time with her already," she finally whispered in a tremulous little voice, and the look she sent him was bleak with her unspoken despair, her fine, dark eyes saddened. "What would I do without her?" He could tell there was perhaps more to that statement than she let on. He rather had a feeling that the girl was her whole life, her whole purpose for going on. And without her, the years ahead seemed to tread nothing but dark and twisted paths. Heavy words lay unspoken between them, and gestures that refused to be made. He wished he had the courage to lay a hand upon her cheek, to kiss those frowning lips; he wished he could say to her, 'I will still be here, when all else is gone.' But he did not, and they settled into an awkward silence, each staring pointedly away from the other.

His mind tossed about for some means of a distraction, and the glances she sent about the apartment attested to the fact that she sought the same thing. With relief, Erik grasped at the one thing he knew he could distract her with, and distract her with quite well, at that.

"Would you like to hear some music, Ria?"

He was glad, suddenly, of the suggestion. For as soon as the words were spoken, it seemed, a smile was back upon her lips, one that stretched so wide in a saucy, open-mouthed grin, he probably could have counted each of her teeth. This was a smile he hadn't seen before; one that made her eyes spark with that obsidian fire again, and made her cheeks tinge an exhilarated pink color, a smile so big that even those sparking eyes were smiling. Something in his chest tightened at the warm, grinning look she sent him, at how endearing that expression looked on her face, appeased by the simplest thing he could provide her with; music. _His_ music. The thought that he and his music were the cause of a smile such as that left him feeling more pleased with his music than ever before.

"I would love that very much, Erik…but perhaps a – a refill first, if you will?" And she held out her glass, empty again. His frowned deepened slightly; this was her third refill. Perhaps he should give her water instead, for the wine was a potent brew, and she was inexperienced as far as that sort of thing went. Her eyes, which were very hooded indeed, gave credence to the telltale signs of brightness, and her cheeks were rather flushed. But she had entreated him so sweetly, and her little dimple on the left cheek had come back again; she sent such a pleading look, her lips pouting and her lashes all a-flutter, that he could scarcely find it in himself to deny her. So he refilled her glass, and she nodded her thanks, taking a small sip before following him to the piano.

He sat himself down on the bench, flexing his fingers before placing them above the ivory keys; they felt like heaven beneath his fingertips, smoothed and sleeked to a degree of perfection that pleased even his expertise. Ria settled herself next to him, her gaze riveted on hands held gracefully over the keys, as if she were anxious for them to begin. As she stared, she scooted a little closer than was perhaps necessary, and Erik cleared his throat with discomfiture, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to relax.

And then he began. The music that flowed, seemingly from his very fingertips, was not something of his own work; after all, he did not wish to frighten her with the mindless fury and lust of some of his own pieces. He started with a piece that had always rather reminded him of Ria. A delicate, haunting tune that seemed to echo the quiet despair that she refused to give voice to. He tried to keep his hands from giving in to the tide of music that so often overtook him, but it was a useless attempt; the compulsion took over, as it always it.

It was gradual, the shift from the composition of others to something of his own work, playing bits and pieces here and there; menace began to creep into the notes that spilled from the great instrument, a sinister fury that barely allowed itself to be noticed, until, quite suddenly, it was all you heard.

Then swelled wrath such as he was sure Ria had never heard before; fury, absolute, blind_fury_ streamed from his fingertips, as if they played a song of death for the men that had taken Ria, men that had shorn her trust and her goodness until it was hardly there at all. It was demonic, this rage, hungry and oh, so glorious in its heightened ferocity. The angry, dissonant notes crescendoed into a pounding, voluminous squall of righteous brutality, and his eyes closed in rapture as he welcomed those waves of fury to him, as he rode their tide with a relish that bordered on insanity.

And then without even thinking, it seemed, the music changed. His fingers curled over the keys in a soothing manner, quieting the outraged storm of violence; it seemed he had grown tired of anger, and in its place he filled the room with infinite seduction. The notes drenched the air with honeyed sounds that dripped with need. They tipped out from the mahogany wood with all the allure of sensuous enticement, and flames of absolute desire licked his ears with the caress of the music he played; music filled with temptation.

As those pale, long-fingered hands stroked the keys with smoldering need, his eyes happened to catch a glimpse of Ria, and the sight brought his senses back with a force as strong as a punch to the gut. He noticed her fingers first, gripping the edges of the bench seat with white-knuckled intensity; his eyes noted how she shivered beside him, her bottom lip tremulous as she drew in a shaky breath, one of her hands trembling as she loosened it's death grip on the seat and brought her wine glass to her lips to take a long draught. When she set the glass down again, her hand, instead of grasping the seat again, placed itself on his leg, fingers straying to his thigh. He noticed, with a near groan, the way her breasts strained against the confines of her corset as she gasped and shut her eyes in rapture. He was very nearly undone by the sight; God, he wanted her; he _ached_ for her. His hands yearned to do for her what his music did, longed to be what caressed that body so persuasively that her back arched and she bit that pouting, bottom lip of hers, just as she did now; longed to be the cause of that little whimper of absolute pleasure that sounded from that delectable-looking throat of hers.

Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she sent a long, heated look in the direction of his hands upon the keys, following each stroke, each curl of his fingers, before slowly rising to stare into his eyes with the same feverish gaze.

This time he did groan, looking into them; her eyes screamed of pure lust. Two fathomless, onyx pools with a tempest of billowing desire in them that burned like hot fire. Those eyes, dark, ebon, hooded with allure, stared at him with unguarded longing.

He knew right then that if he wanted to, he could take her; take her, and she would surrender to him immediately, coaxed as she was by the seduction of his music. He let out a hiss of air that he hadn't been aware of holding. She was so close, and he wanted her _so badly_.

_I cannot kiss you without remembering_…

Her words from earlier echoed in his mind, and the very second that he remembered them he knew he could not, and would not, use her so. It was terribly hypocritical, after all, being furious with the men who had used her for their own gain, and then contemplating using her in the very same fashion. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. So he looked away from her, and his fingers arrested the assault his music had been placing upon her battered senses; the long, pale digits lifted themselves from the keys, halting in mid-phrase, and the music quieted to a soft, straining sound that echoed wistfully about the room until it faded away entirely, leaving a breathless silence in its place. Sorrow surrounded him, embraced him with its miserable blackness.

And that was the end of that.

For hours after that he played music for her, music that was soft and sweet, music that did not leave one mindless to all else but whatever emotion, be it lust or anger, that the music instilled upon them. It was music meant to soothe; gentle harmonies to quiet her no doubt troubled thoughts and feelings. His fingers moved across the keys with a mind of their own, playing refrains from other worthy composers, occasionally dipping into the more tender melodies of his own. If tears were music, then what he played was little more than the sounds of quiet lamentation. But whatever it was that he played, she listened, a wan smile on her face and a shadowy look in her eyes. By the time he finished, his fingers had grown sore, and outside it was the pitch-dark of deepest night, when all others slumbered. He wondered, vaguely, why it was that no one complained about the sounds of music that played at such an hour from his room, but figured it was more or less because all others were too terrified to voice such complaint against him. A smile, very brief, flickered across his face.

He looked across at her, thinking perhaps to voice this particular suspicion in attempt to rouse her from her downhearted spirits, but was stopped by the very watery smile she bestowed him; a sheen of tears shone like crystals in her ebony depths, and in the dim lighting they sparkled as if made of diamonds. He almost felt as if he was gazing into a Persian sky after the sun had long since set and blackness had taken over. He looked at her and for the first time was struck motionless by just how beautiful she was; he looked at her and felt as if there was no other world for him, save in her.

"Oh, Erik," and her hand came out to rest upon the bare side of his cheek. "That was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. It was…I –" she gave a long sigh, exasperated by her loss of words, and stared down at the keys, as if suddenly seeing them for what they really were to him. "Truly exquisite," she whispered, then smiled back up at him.

Her eyes threw a regretful look towards the window, and another sigh sang past her lips, possessing the room with dreamy sadness. "But it grows late. Mina worries when I'm not home, I should probably –"

"You could stay."

He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. Her little hand fell away from his cheek, and he was left cursing himself. Damned fool of a man, what could he have been thinking of?

"Erik." Her tone was forbidding, brooking almost no room for argument, and she looked away, her beautiful, dark eyes downcast as one of her fingers came up to touch a white piano key. But despite the hard tone, despite the frown on her lips, which looked to be a struggle to keep on as she stared at the keys before her, there was a tremulous uncertainty in that voice that gave him cause for hope, and he carried on relentlessly, tossing aside regret.

"You _should_ stay. You have had entirely too much to drink, Madame." A pale finger lifted to trace above her cheekbone, never making contact; he longed so much to touch her, so much that it was almost impossible to resist. But he remembered what she had said earlier. He could not bear to see the distaste cross her features; not again.

"But I –"

"Just to sleep," he quickly intervened, and allowed himself so much as to tuck back behind her ear that wily raven curl that fell into her eyes. Her chin lifted to turn her gaze back towards his with eyes that had, remarkably, softened, and though they still held the shadow of uncertainty, she smiled.

"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt to stay. I have already put Mina to bed, after all, before I came here. Perhaps I can slip back in the morning, before she wakes; she need not even know I left in the first place. But only as long as I stay –"

"Just to sleep." They both finished together, his a voice of grave reassurance; hers, though a little meek, spoken with obvious reproach; a subtle threat that if he were to try anything, there would be hell to pay.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Following into Paradise

**A/N: OMG it's been forever, and I'm sorry to any of you that might still be reading the story of a lowly procrastinator (is there anybody left?!). No excuses. Life got its paws on me and wouldn't let go. Yuck.**

**Big, heaping thanks to Barb the Beta! She saved my life and rocks hardcore for it (yes, I consider editing someone's work as a life-saving event).**

**Enjoy! I wrote you guys a nice long one. : ) **

Chapter Eleven: Following into Paradise

With a breathy sigh I eased myself under the silken covers of Erik's bed, a wriggle of my toes and a languorous stretch of my arms accompanying the grin that danced across my lips. My long, black tresses of hair lay strewn across the pillows, a wild tangle of messy dark locks. I sighed again as my eyes slid shut with lazy contentment.

A bed. A _real _bed, with a plump mattress beneath me, and plush pillows to cushion my head, and the silky texture of blankets all around to cool my skin. Oh, Allah, it had been so _long _since last I rested in such a bed as this. In comparison, the ridiculously small and stiff cot that I used back on the Laroche estate would function better as a rock. I breathed deeply at the long forgotten and yet comfortingly familiar feel of it, my mind taking me away from this dreary little place and into another world entirely. All the tiresome daily thoughts and fears that buzzed through my mind drifted away so easily, like little grains of sand sliding through my fingers; and for just this one moment, if I just forgot _everything_, I could almost imagine I was back in Persia; I could almost pretend that I was _home_.

My nose pulled in a deep breath, and I swear I could almost smell the familiar scents of opium and sweet plums as they possessed the air; a sweet and reassuring perfume that had graced the halls of the harem with their wafting presence. The fire that burned steadily in the fireplace transformed into the heat of the desert, flowing over my skin as the sun beat down upon me; the sound of sheets snapping through the breeze as the wind blew in wildly from my balcony. I could hear it; I could feel it. I _swear _I could.

A smile, small and wistful, tugged at my lips.

Upon my tongue came the sugary taste of gaz; the dribbling goo of honey and slight crunch of little pistachios, the wonderful sweetness of it. I licked my lips as if the sticky ooze of sweetmeats had dripped there, and imagined the delectable taste of it.

Oh, I missed it. I missed all of it, so terribly much. Despite all the pain, all the hurt and sadness, despite everything, I missed it. As I lay there imagining and wishing and _aching_, I felt as if that world were just barely beyond my reach. As if maybe, if I could stretch my fingers just a little further, if I just wished for it a little bit harder, I could reach out and take it back, take everything back. My home, my life, my naïve youth and all its innocence; I wanted it back. I, at least, was not fooled by my charade of indifference and capable courage. I was scared and alone, in a land entirely foreign to myself, aching for home. And Allah, did I ache; I ached so very much to go back to the beginning. But I knew I never could. _You can never go back; life is not that simple_.

My eyes cracked open slightly, and it was disconcerting to realize how much I had hoped that I would glimpse all those things I imagined, how much I wished that I had indeed gone back. I shrugged my thoughts away. Harmless as those wistful dreams might seem, I knew it was dangerous to think such things. I stared up at the dull ceiling above me, reminding myself of all the things that had been done to me, made myself remember how lucky I was to be away from it all, told myself that not only could I not go back, but that I _didn't_ want to go back; not ever.

Perhaps my imagination was going further than it might; I was still feeling the drink very much. Even as I lay there, the room still managed to spin circles around me. I closed my eyes again and pressed a hand to my temple, as if to stay the foggy dizziness I felt in my head. I was woozy and disoriented, and sorely regretting having so much, now that it was starting to wear off, and in its stead was brewing a violent headache.

I glanced over to the side; in the bleak darkness that shadowed the room, despite the warm glow of the fire that burned low in the hearth, it was only a vague outline of Erik's rather imposing form that I could discern through the gloom. He stood before the window, one of his hands clutching a glass of the bitter-tasting brandy he drank; it seemed he stood at that window a lot. I wondered, with a piteous smile on my lips, if he might dream of things forbidden to him as well. If, just as I wanted to go home, he wished so badly that he could live as others; just be a normal person like everyone else, and not fear the idea of going out-of-doors to brave the crowds outside. I felt sad for him, suddenly, that he must shut himself away from the world. More and more, I was beginning to see him in an entirely different light than I once did in Persia. There, I had known him as a powerful man to be greatly feared, and respected at all times, a man with no fear, no heart, no shred of feeling whatsoever. But he was more like everyone else than he knew. I sensed deep heartache in him; a man with no heart would not carry such pain as he did. A man with no fear would not keep himself hidden as he did, with all his talent and genius reduced to nothing more than for the viewing of one lowly little slave girl.

A man with no feeling would not have looked at me the way he had, when he had asked me to stay. A look that spoke so much more than his words ever did. Surely a man with no feeling would not gaze at me as if…as if…

As if nothing. He did not care for me, he cared for Christine. For even as he had stared at me, with that barest little glimmer of adoration in his eyes, I could sense a shadow in his gaze, as if, even as I stood before him, distantly he still saw that small flame of brave hope that Christine had given him, still saw the woman that he had loved so terribly much and could not quite forget. Even when he was looking at _me_, he was not really seeing me; it was her he saw, her he wanted.

A frustrated sigh of impatience whistled through my teeth, and I turned to my side, propping my head up on my hand as I stared at him with a glower. What was he doing, anyway? I was dead exhausted; I wanted sleep. But it seemed rude, somehow, to just drop off while still he stood there, fully clothed and looking in no mood to sleep any time soon.

"Are you coming to bed, Erik?"

I blinked in surprise. Had I _actually_ said that, just now? Had I really invited a man to bed? It had slipped so easily from my tongue, as if it were the most natural thing to say, as if I had spent a lifetime of scolding him for staying up too late and that he had better come to bed with me, or else. I was afraid of how normal it felt to say that, terrified even more at the thought that I wanted always to be the one woman that asked him to her bed, and yet deep down I was pleased with how right it seemed.

"I'm really not tired." His reply was distant, distracted; my eyes detected the movement of his chin lifting, his gaze settling skyward. I wondered if he appreciated the beautiful opulence of the night sky as much as I did; that glorious stretch of velvety darkness that blanketed the world far above and spread farther than one could ever imagine, impervious to the decay of time, resolutely pitching the world into the shadowed obscurity it brought each night. I glimpsed from the window a vision of the moon, at the time a small crescent strip of glowing white that grew blurred behind a patch of murky clouds. Stars winked imperiously from above, like little flecks of diamonds that sparkled from the riches above.

More beautiful than the dawn of day, more beautiful than the shimmer of sunlight playing over water, or the vibrant hue of color that took to the sky as the sun sank below the horizon, nighttime, to me, was the most breathtaking loveliness to behold. Perhaps because it reminded me so much of my mother, and made me feel that much closer to her. In my mind, the lush darkness that took the world at night was the heavy fall of her black, wild hair; the gentle, shadowy sky above reminded me of her great big midnight eyes; in the glitter of stars I saw the flash of her smile. I did not need the picture I had to remind me of her every day. In the quiet gloom of nighttime, in the gentle sway of a passing breeze, I felt her presence, and remembered her from the distant recollections of my mind. Her voice, a whispering sigh of serenity, her hands, a gentle touch upon my cheek.

Her screams…Oh, Allah, would I ever forget those screams?

I blinked quickly, holding back the pressure I felt building in my eyes; I had already had enough of crying. There would be no more of that today. Quick fingers ran under my eyes, wiping away any small moisture that had escaped, and then my head drooped back down on the pillow, a heavy sigh escaping my lips.

Erik still hadn't moved from the window. I tapped a finger against a pillow impatiently, my eyes already hooded with sleepiness. With growing determination, I slipped from the bed, stalking towards him with a firm, no-nonsense scowl upon my features. Despite my fortitude, however, my feet wouldn't seem to work right. It was a slow and staggering pace I set as the room tilted and danced about me.

I stepped between him and the window, surely looking a fool as I swayed on my feet even as my arms crossed with more boldness than I felt. I cleared my throat as I tapped my foot impatiently, waiting for him to glance down. When he finally did, it was with a quirk playing at the corner of his lips; on any other man, it would have been a well-suppressed smile; on Erik, it was his attempt at a smile.

His dark brow arched in question. I ignored the flutter in my stomach.

"A woman could get very lonely waiting on you, Erik." The scold in my voice did not go unnoticed. His brow hiked up even further, and the corner of his lips twitched as if he truly was suppressing a smile now.

"You sleep. I'll be along in a moment, I'm not –"

His voice instantly halted as my arms went up around his shoulders. Rising up on my tiptoes, I was able to pull my face up closer to his, and I nuzzled my nose against his cheek, my lips brushing against the corner of his as I purred a breathy whisper.

"Please come to bed with me, Erik," I breathed softly, "Hmm? Please?" And I pressed myself closer, emboldened by the drink perhaps, one hand straying up to brush back a lock of his hair. A smile blossomed on my lips as I heard that strangled little sound buried deep in his throat, a noise he seemed to make often as of late.

He pressed my back against the window, his head dipping down to allow his lips access to my throat. "Well, if you insist," he whispered, his breath hot against my flesh, and his sly purr infinitely more dangerous than mine. "I'd be much obliged to –"

I slapped away the hand that had slipped its way up my chemise and was gliding up my thigh.

"Incorrigible man! You know the rules." My voice returned to its hard, uncompromising tone. I folded my arms again, bending my face away from his so as to avoid those lecherous lips of his. My features had turned from crafty to pouting; it seemed he'd turned my own game against me. I didn't like it one bit.

"You were the one that –"

A finger upon his lips stopped him. "Ssh…" His lips felt so soft against my finger. He looked down at me, his expression running from exhilaration to indignation and then to something that rather resembled the way he had looked at me before, at the piano; my heart beat faster at the look of guarded affection in his eyes as he gazed at me.

"Come to bed," my voice had grown small with weariness, my eyes heavy as I removed my finger from his lips and instead took up his hand, leading him towards the bed; he followed behind hesitantly. "I'm tired." A quiet yawn attested to the truth of that; my jaw ached by the time it was gone.

In the darkness, or perhaps the drink had just made me particularly nonobservant, my eyes missed sight of the table in my way; my hip caught the edge of it and I staggered to the side, my feet tripping over themselves. Erik's arms came around my waist easily, and I righted myself as a flush spread to my cheeks.

"Please, lie down Ria, before you hurt yourself." He scolded me wearily, but I detected a vague amusement buried in his tone. I scowled back at him.

"Your fault," was all I muttered, but I had to agree that laying down sounded quite agreeable.

I crawled into the luxurious bed, a small groan escaping my lips as I settled back under the blankets and snuggled closer to the pillows. My toes couldn't help but wriggle again as I settled in, and a soft sigh gave dreamy credence to my abundant satisfaction. I turned onto my side, hugging a pillow to myself, and stared up at Erik.

During the display of contentment, I had missed him sliding into bed. Of course, earlier I had already done him the favor of removing his cravat and waistcoat, though I blushed to remember it. The only thing he'd removed was his boots; but despite the case, he had been quick, and exceedingly silent; I hadn't even heard him getting into the bed.

I was glad, however, to see that he still wore his trousers and shirt. It made me feel safer, somehow, as if the layers of clothes provided me with more protection. I rolled my eyes. As if clothes could stop the man. He was the extreme of incorrigible. I had meant it wholeheartedly when I'd said just as much.

His back was resting against the headboard, his gaze settled upon the low-burning embers of the fire as his thumb and forefinger absently stroked his chin, as if he were deep in thought. I sighed again and turned over onto my back; he didn't look to be sleeping anytime soon. I felt more than uncomfortable sleeping next to a man still awake.

Perhaps conversation would wear him down. I closed my eyes tiredly and pulled the blanket up to my chin before I started.

"Do you ever miss your home, Erik?"

"This is my home."

I sighed intolerantly. "No, I mean where you were born. Where you come from. Do you miss it?"

"No."

Well. Other than his one-worded and rather harsh answer, he didn't seem particularly forthcoming in saying anything else on the matter. I opened my eyes and impatiently blew a lock of hair from their vision; it floated briefly and then settled back over my eye. My hand flicked up irritably to wisk it away.

"Never?" I turned onto my side, facing him again and propping my chin up with a hand.

"Never. I am sure you do not miss your home. This is the same concept."

A wan smile crossed my features as I looked away from him, staring towards the window, my eyes latching onto the sliver of moon that hung high above in the winking darkness.

"On the contrary, there are many times I miss my homeland."

"You miss Persia? After…you miss Persia?" Finally he was looking at me, his brow raised in consternation. My eyes settled on him again, and I nodded earnestly.

"Of course. I was born there, raised there. It is not foreign to me such as Paris is. I miss that familiarity; the smells and the sounds." My smile widened as my head sank down onto a pillow and my eyes closed in reflection. "The wild expanse of desert and the near constant heat of the sun from above. Oh, and the food." I ran my tongue over my lips. "France has no concept of how to properly cook something. Food needs spice."

"But –"

"I know a great many terrible things happened in Persia, Erik. You need not tell me so. There is not a day that goes by that I do not remember it." My voice had turned to a low whisper. "I may have hated my people, I may have hated our custom of slavery, but I could never hate my homeland. I miss it very much, and it saddens me that I can never return."

"Well, it is not the same for me. I do not miss my home." His gaze had studiously returned to consider the fire before us, and his tone became distracted again.

"Where _were_ you born?"

He was silent for a long while, one long finger absently touching one of his wrists. My eyes glanced down, and in the faded light I could vaguely make out the tracery of scars upon the flesh. I wondered where they had come from.

"Boscherville." His voice had gone very quiet, almost nonexistent, but it nevertheless jolted me from my thoughts, and my startled gaze lifted to his face; I hadn't thought he would answer after the length of his silence.

"Is it very far from here?" He gave a small shrug, an obvious gesture that he didn't want to talk about it anymore. But my persistence knew no boundaries; I couldn't help but wonder about his past.

"What was it like? Was it a pretty place? A big city?"

"Just a feckless little town filled with feckless little people."

In his reply, I heard just the barest glimmer of menace laced through his tone, and decided to drop the subject. My mind tossed about for a new topic.

"Well, if you do not miss _your_ home…do you ever miss Persia?"

"Not particularly," he said in a voice feigned with detachment; in his eyes, however, I detected a vestige of bitter pain simmering. "I did many things in Persia that I would much rather forget."

That certainly eased some of my discomfort with him. He made it sound as if he truly regretted the unspeakable acts the khanum had ordered him to carry out. Perhaps the designs of all those murders, all those treacheries, had come from his mind, perhaps he hated humanity, but…I suddenly had the feeling he had not relished in it. I couldn't help my sigh of relief.

I sat up suddenly at the thought of the khanum; I recalled the words I had spoken to him, about the khanum, and him. A small groan worked it's way past my lips when the effects of sitting up entirely to quickly hit me; the room felt as if it might crash down upon me it was spinning so fast, and with a sigh I lay back down, holding my head. Closing my eyes, however, did not assuage my guilt.

_'The Khanum's own _Angel of Doom…_what were you but a whore for her?' _

"Erik, I'm…I'm sorry about what I said before, about the khanum, and you being her…well, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Erik sighed heavily. "Yes, you did."

I attempted to sit up again, more slowly, and scooted closer to him, hesitantly touching a finger to his cheek, turning him to look up at me. I tried to smile, but it felt forced.

"We all do things we regret, Erik. Perhaps you did allow the khanum to use you, and perhaps you did a great many unspeakable things, but…it is that regret that matters now. It is too late to take all of it back, but your regret proves that despite everything you still have humanity, and heart."

He was, as ever, silent. With a faltering heart, I moved to sit right next to him, resting my head on his shoulder and slipping my arm across his chest.

"I do not think you're wicked, Erik. Perhaps you are hard to understand, and you do have a bit of a temper, but…I think you are a good man, Erik. I do. You're just afraid to show that you are."

He gave a derisive 'hmph', but his arm curled around my waist, pulling me closer.

"That," he said, in a voice that sounded almost amused, "is a grossly misguided opinion."

I couldn't help but laugh as I leaned my head against Erik's shoulder, the little sound of hilarity bubbling forth with such ease, it was hard to remember a time when laughter had evaded me and I had been but a joyless shell of a person, going from master to master and asking myself why, _why did he abandon me? Why did my father go away?_

A frown crossed my features at the thought. It was a daily struggle, to batter away those moments when I could not help but wonder about him. If I could only know his name; if I could only remember what he looked like…just the barest glimmer of a picture of his face…

"What are you thinking about?"

I glanced up towards Erik with a frown still on my face; my father was never a subject easily spoken of. I could not remember a time when I had even mentioned him aloud. I swallowed thickly, turning my gaze back down, my fingers idly playing with a button on the front of Erik's shirt.

"My father." I said quietly; it almost wasn't even a struggle anymore, to keep even the barest scrap of emotion schooled from my face whenever my chagrined thoughts were turned towards my father. "Sometimes I can't help but wonder about him. My memories of him are but the dimmest recollections." I cleared my throat and blinked my eyes a few times as I pursed my lips, as if to stay the wave of sadness that swept over me. "I can't help but ask myself why he left me there, at that place."

Erik was silent, no doubt unsure of what to say. My eyes flitted up to see him staring down at me, and I rolled my lips together with uncertainty.

"What about…what about your parents?"

A scowl settled on his features just before he turned his face away from me, his eyes gluing themselves to the ceiling, his countenance turning back into the grim expression of forbid that I knew so well. Not a word came past those turned down lips for several tense moments; his displeasure was evident.

"It's in the past. You'd do better to leave the past alone." It was all he uttered when he finally deigned to speak.

And I don't know why I suddenly felt the confidence to say to him what I longed for most; the words poured from my lips without a second thought, and the instant after I spoke, the regret spread through me like wildfire.

"I wish so much that you could speak to me without regret or shame…" it was whisper-soft, my voice, and drenched with the dire longing I felt to truly know the man I lay next to. I kept my gaze down, embarrassed to feel an impromptu flush heating my face, my fingers still plucking at Erik's buttons, as if desperate for something to occupy them.

In my day, I could stand before the men of Persia with a prideful chin and flow through my dances of loathsome seduction without ever a falter. But this…this admission of emotion that I felt so deeply in my gut; this dive into waters unknown that I had never before desired to swim through…this, I could not do without uncertainty; I could not do it without thinking that I would fail. I was in over my head, surely to drown within the tide of affection I felt for this man, to sink beneath it's surf and into the arms of blackest despair. It scared me that I cared so much for him.

And his response was the bitterest thing I'd ever heard. "If I spoke to you as such, you would be the one regretful and shamed. You think you understand what it is to lead a path of darkness, to follow a road of loneliness and wretchedness, but you have not a clue," My eyes dared to turn up towards his face, indignation written upon my features, and I was surprised to see the hateful glare he wore as he stared stubbornly towards the fire, the shoulder my head lay against suddenly tense, his arm around me frigidly unwelcoming. "You would never understand."

I tried to control my fury at his carelessly thrown away words; tried to breathe deep and focus away from the haze of red anger I saw; I tried, I really did.

After all that I had told him days ago, still he did not understand. My hand upon his chest fisted and fell into my lap as I turned my gaze towards the dance of flames in the hearth, a frown on my lips and my eyes glowering with anger.

"Why can you not understand what I have been telling you," I whispered in a strangled tone of both anger and weariness. "I have faced my share of demons, Erik, and I will not be told that I couldn't possibly understand the reality of life that you have faced; reality that _both _of us have had to face. I will not tolerate having myself thought of as some pretty little woman leading her pretty little life; it just isn't so." A small sigh of resignation left my lips, my eyes closing in the sudden exhaustion I felt; exhaustion at the bitter thought that he and I might never understand each other. And I'm afraid my voice broke on what I whispered next:

"All I want is to know you."

He was silent for an immeasurable amount of time. I felt awkward sitting so close to him, my head still upon his shoulder, his arm still held around my waist, as if both of us feared to move. Erik cleared his throat, and I chanced a glance up in his direction. His lips opened, as if he were about to speak, and then closed again. I sighed despondently and looked away from him, my hand rising of it's own accord back to the buttons of his shirt.

"How about a fair bargain?" I fought hard to keep my voice even, to keep back the glum mood that had somehow crept over us.

I felt his chin tilt down; lifting my head a bit, our eyes met for a brief second, his narrowed with suspicion. A forced smile was all I could attempt as I lay my head back on his shoulder.

"Fair bargain?"

"You know, a question for a question. We can take turns, one question at a time."

He didn't reply. I snuggled closer, attempting to draw him out of the wall of ice he'd built around himself.

"I'll let you go first." I baited him slyly, my fingers rising to smooth the collar of his shirt. A small noise sounded in his throat; I wasn't entirely sure if it was amusement or disapproval. I figured it was more than likely disapproval when he didn't make any further replies.

There was silence for a long moment.

"Why are you here?"

I blinked, turning my gaze up towards him in confusion. He still wasn't looking at me.

"What?"

"You said, a question for a question. That is my first question. Why are you here? What is it you want from me?"

"What do I…want from you?" I spoke in a haltingly skeptical tone. What did he mean, what did I want from him? Was that all he thought this was? That I wanted money or jewels?

"What I mean is…what is it you…see in me. Why do you stay?"

_Oh_. A surprised smile tugged at my lips. I hadn't really expected him to participate in the little game I'd devised. And I had hardly anticipated that _that_ would be his first question. Wasn't it obvious why I stayed?

"Because…" I started, and then hesitated.

_Because I care so much about you._

My nose scrunched up and my lips pursed as I considered how to respond. How could I say anything without embarrassing myself?

_Because I think I may be falling for you._

My eyes opened wide at the unbidden thought. Where had that come from?

_I think I may be falling in love with you._

"B-because…" I was stammering now, unsure of what to say. Allah save me, my own thoughts had thrown me off. And now that the idea had surfaced, there seemed no other worthy answer.

Falling in love? With him? Was I? My heart pounded wildly at the thought.

Erik tilted his chin down to look at me, and my eyes were drawn to his inexplicably, as if some magnetic force somehow connected us. He gazed at me expectantly, his eyes searching mine, and though I self-consciously wanted to look away, as if afraid he could see the answer all too easily, I found I could not. I suddenly found I didn't ever want to look away. I stared into his too-beautiful eyes, as bright and glorious as real gold, my heart leaping to my throat and my stomach plummeting to my feet. Was that love? Did love make your stomach plummet?

Was love the reason why, whenever I looked into those eyes, my past seemed to vanish? Was that why his touch left me feeling unafraid and desirous? Was that why I felt that shocking jolt every time our eyes met, why I felt fire whenever our skin brushed? It made a strange sort of sense, to think all of that was love.

_Yes, Erik. I do think I may be falling in love with you._

My eyes slid shut at that thought. Maybe I didn't love him, not yet, for how could you love someone you barely knew? But there was this feeling inside of me, deep inside of me, and I didn't understand, really, what it was, but somehow I just knew; knew that I could never want any other as I wanted him. That man had stolen a part of my heart the very first night I met him, and I had not even known it until just now. He was, after all, perhaps the best thief I had ever met. A little smile started tugging at my lips.

"Is it that bad?"

My eyes snapped open to see Erik glaring back into the fire, and I realized I still hadn't given him an answer. I bit my lip abashedly.

"No, of course not," I started, licking my lips as I considered my answer. "There are just…so many reasons why." I gave a nervous laugh. Erik turned and raised a brow at me. My eyes softened.

"Isn't it obvious, Erik?" I ran a finger along his chin, and suddenly I couldn't stop smiling. "Isn't it obvious to you that I care very much about you?" I don't think I'd ever spoken more softly. But he heard me. I read an unfathomable expression in his eyes, and I wasn't sure if it was affection or disbelief or hope; I wasn't really sure of anything anymore, except the fact that I cared for him almost just as much as I cared for the little girl that was just as much a part of him as she was of me. That, I was suddenly certain of.

But I didn't want to tell him just how far my affection went. I didn't want to say that I was falling in love with him; not in so many words. Perhaps because a part of me thought he wasn't ready to hear something like that yet. These things take time, after all.

Maybe that was it. But I knew that deep down, way down where my most selfish thoughts lived, that I was scared to tell him. Scared that he wouldn't say anything to me at all, or that he would reject me.

Scared that he would say he didn't love me, not even the tiniest bit. Of that, I was suddenly terrified.

"Why?" he whispered. I read the confusion in his drawn brow.

"Oh, there are many reasons. Who really knows what draws two people together? But there's just something about you, Erik."

He shook his head with disbelief. "I fail to see what that might be. I'm…not a very nice person. And I'm –" he raised a hand very briefly towards the masked side of his face, and then shrugged helplessly, dropping the hand back down to his side.

"Well, yes, you do have your negative qualities. Everyone does. You're arrogant, self-centered, unpredictable, very stubborn, you have an exceedingly bad temper –"

Erik frowned down at me, but I saw from the twitch in the corner of his lips that he was suppressing a smile. "Do go on. Tell me what you really think of me." I grinned up at him.

"I'm sure the list goes on, Erik. But it's as I said. I know, I _know_, deep down you're a good man –" a derisive snort from him. "– And a complete gentleman, and I've seen that you can actually be very caring." Was he rolling his eyes at me? "When you _aren't_ making the wrong assumptions and taking things wildly out of hand with your anger, then you're actually rather pleasant company to keep."

"Pleasant." His voice was filled with disdain.

"And that's all well and good," I continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "But there is so much more to it than that. So much more." I kept my eyes cast down, trying to ignore the burn of his gaze upon me.

"The thing is, it doesn't matter. Even in Persia, when I thought you were nothing but a murderer," I attempted to smile at him, to lessen the sting of my words. "I still…I felt _something_. Even if you were still that man today, I think, I would still want to be with you more than anything."

There. I had said it. I wanted to be with him. I _wanted _to be with _him_.

"But _why_?" Frustration had ebbed its way into his voice. He seemed ridiculously upset by the fact that he just couldn't understand that which I had grasped so simply. I smiled shyly at him, having no idea at all how to express my words to him.

"Because…be-because…" Stammering. I was stammering. Allah have mercy on me.

"Because when you…when you look at me, I feel – ah – I feel –" _like I'm flying_. My thoughts shuddered at the idea of saying that. I skipped that part. "When you touch me, it's like…it is like –" _it's like an explosion of fire spreading across my entire body, all radiating from one tiny little spot, ignited by the touch of your hand. _There was no way in the name of Allah I could say that! "When you say my name, I feel like, ah, well –" _like the only person in the world that matters._

"Ria, if you could speak in full sentences _please_, I would greatly appreciate it."

A hot flame of scarlet splashed its way across my cheeks as I glanced anxiously up at him. He looked like he was ready to wring the truth out of me. I shifted my gaze down again.

"It's a little hard to describe, Erik. Why don't you try?" My voice was flat.

"Try what?" I glanced back up and quickly away again.

"What do you…ah, well do you feel any…you know, when…"

"Full sentences, Ria. You're still not using them." I glared at him irritably.

"Damn you, what do you feel when we touch?"

Oh Allah. I was shouting at him now. About _that_. I turned away in complete embarrassment.

"Oh." _Oh? Well, now I'll never be able to look at him again if that's all he has to say on the matter. _

"What happened to using full sentences, Erik?" My voice was surly, and my lips pulled down in a pout. A very justified pout, damn it. _He'd better have more to say than just _'Oh.'

"Well, I…You still have not completely answered my question! It is _not _my turn yet." His voice somehow managed to sound just as surly as mine had.

_I most certainly did answer it! He's had more than one question!_

I sighed with resignation. "Let us just say that I feel…nice when I'm around you."

"That's an inadequate response and you know it." Obstinate. Completely obstinate. _The man never gives up_. I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling.

"Well, Erik, you are just going to have to trust me on this. I care about you and I enjoy being with you, and that's that. You know, for such a genius you certainly are absurdly blind to some of your own attributes."

"Well I –"

"Ah, ah, ah," I shushed him, halting his mouth with a finger. I still couldn't look him in the eyes, though. "I believe you've had at least _two_ questions already. Maybe even more. It's my turn now."

His glare returned to the fire. With more than a little exasperation, I heaved a sigh.

What to ask him? There was so much that I wanted to know, so much that I was dying to hear about. I couldn't fathom where to begin.

_Perhaps begin where he began. _A small smile stitched itself across my face. I was curious, after all, to see how he might answer such a question.

"Why do you stay with me?"

Silence stretched across the room as he gazed at the fire, considering. His expression was so serious, his brow lowered in thought. The seconds ticked by, so long that it seemed like it was hours going by as I waited for him to speak. Waited, and waited, and felt my poor, foolish little heart dying in my chest, and each breath I took felt strained, and seemed to spread a wave of hurt straight through me.

_He doesn't care for me. He doesn't care for me one bit. And now he's trying to think of some way to let me down easy, now that I've gone and told him that I'm practically in love with him! Oh, what a little fool I am, what a stupid girl!_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, casting a small glance my way. My heart sank even lower. "I just…can't seem to find an adequate answer." I pursed my lips and looked away.

"I suppose you could say it is for similar reasons as yours." Another glance towards me, quickly averted.

I managed a stiff reply that I found that answer as inadequate as he had found mine. A sigh escaped his lips.

"I don't think I have ever met even one person that is quite like you, Ria." I looked up at him and away again. "You are…you are…"

_I'm what? __**What?**_

Another of his sighs echoed around the room, one of extreme frustration this time. His brow furrowed as he shook his head and then turned his gaze to me. The look in his eyes made me feel feverish all over. Feverish, even though I shivered as if I was chilled.

"I find that I'm having as difficult a time as you were with words. Nothing seems to explain the way I…f-feel about you, or what you…mean to me."

And then very softly, so very, very gently he pressed his lips to mine. With his hands cradling my face, his lips seemed to send a message straight to mine, saying exactly how he felt about me, and what I meant to him. It was there in the tenderness of his hands against my cheeks, and the softness of his lips against mine. It had been there in his eyes, just before he kissed me. It was there in his lack of words.

A little ball of warmth bubbled up in my chest, and then spread all through me. Right then, his lips said very clearly, very precisely, _'I care about you, I need you, you mean everything to me.' _A small, choked noise stirred in my throat, and we both shuddered. I brought my hand to rest against his chest, and his heart was racing beneath my palm.

Just as gently, just as sweetly, his lips parted from mine. His hands still cradled my face as his forehead bent down to rest against mine, the nose of his mask brushing alongside my nose; maybe it was nothing more than hard plaster, but the warmth inside of me burned that much brighter for it. He let out a long sigh, one that sent that ball of warmth straight down to my toes and had them curling into the blanket as another shudder ran through me.

"Does that answer your question?" Erik's voice was a whisper, and his breath ran across my lips; I was hard-pressed to stifle another quiver that begged to run down my spine.

"Umm…I think I might need another example, please?" I whispered back breathlessly with my eyes still closed, snuggling into his chest. His answering laugh made the bubbling warmth inside of me clench tight around my heart. I opened my eyes to find him watching me intently, and _that_ _look_ was back in his eyes again, and why was I blushing all of the sudden?

"You wouldn't elaborate on your answers. You can hardly expect me to." I pouted at him. "Besides, it's my turn to ask again." _Why is he still looking at me like that? He's never looked at me like that for this long before?_

I smiled up at him, and brought an arm around his waist. "Well, why don't I go ahead and answer before you even ask?" And I angled my lips towards his.

His fingers on my chin stopped me. "You make it hard for a man to keep some self-control, Ria." I huffed and disentangled myself from him, sinking back down on the bed and flinging an arm across my eyes dramatically.

"Fine. Ask your question."

He settled himself down next to me, and I shifted my arm a bit to peek at him. He was still looking at me with _that look_. I hid my eyes back under my arm.

Silence pervaded the room for a moment; I could almost feel the building tension in him, and when I glanced back at him he was looking towards the fire instead, his expression serious.

He took a deep breath, and when he voiced it, his question was spoken in a very soft, tense voice.

"How many men?"

A frowned curved my lips down. I feigned ignorance.

"Hmm?"

"After me. How many times did you have to…" his voice trailed off, and he took another big breath. "How many men?"

I stared up at the ceiling above us and clenched my fingers into fists.

"I really would rather not talk about that," I mumbled unhelpfully, my gaze resolutely tracing the wooden beams on the ceiling. From the corner of my eye I saw his sidelong glance.

"Is it that many?"

A shudder went through me and I frowned, clenching my fingers tighter.

"Yes."

"I'm…I'm sorry."

A tiny shrug lifted one of my shoulders. "It wasn't all bad. There were even a few men that weren't interested in the more…questionable acts I was required to perform. Some that just wanted simple companionship."

There had only been one, really. But I knew he might perhaps feel better with the knowledge that my past wasn't all brutality, even if it truly had been. Only one man that hadn't forced me into his bed.

Kamal.

Of course, he'd tried. And I would have done so obligingly, as was my duty. But Kamal Hisami Khan wasn't interested in duty, wasn't interested in the dispassionate responses I gave him. Whenever I was sent to him, during the day I was merely company for him; a companion to partake in his reading pleasure, or to join him in a short exhibition of riding horses across the wild terrain of our country, or enjoying sweet desserts while walking through gardens around his expansive lands.

And at night, he would ardently throw his physical attentions upon me with unsubtle attempts at seduction. I did everything duty required of me, but other than that, I was rather stubbornly mechanical with him. And he would grow tired of it and send me away, saying he didn't want to dirty his bed with a whore.

For some reason, his dismissive comment always stung. But the next day it would be forgotten, and we would continue with our sort of friendship. And never once had Kamal managed to gain any form of honest passion from me. And because of that, he had never forced me.

A frown pulled my brows down as I puzzled over it. It was something I never understood, though I was grateful for it. I wondered at it, and wondered over that strange friendship the two of us had developed. Friendship with a man who rightfully should have just been my master, with a man who had seemed…somehow familiar from the very moment I was first sent to him. My frown deepened. Understanding danced coyly along the fringes of my mind, and I reached towards it, only to encounter shadows and vague, indistinct lost memories that wouldn't surface. Something that must have happened long ago, something that happened when I was only a child, maybe. Before…

Erik's voice pulled me away from my musings.

"I want you to know, Ria. I don't think less of you for it." I looked towards him and his eyes caught mine, their expression grave. "I know I've made some rather…derogatory comments towards you about that, and I want to apologize for it."

He attempted to smile at me, and my own lips curved up in a genuine smile back at him as I scooted a little closer towards him.

"Thank you." I murmured, one of my hands touching his wrist.

He was silent again, and I looked up at him, trying to brush past the shadowed ghosts plaguing my thoughts and arching a brow in his direction. "Is it my turn to ask now?"

His lips tilted up again. "I suppose."

My eyes dropped back down to the wrist I touched, my fingers tracing over the surplus of scars there. "How did you get these?"

He was quiet for a long while before he looked at me, his gaze even more serious than before. I was surprised to see resignation written in his eyes; as if he'd finally decided maybe some things he could share with me. The thought gave me abundant amounts of satisfaction.

He took a deep breath, still looking at me, and answered my question in a blunt fashion.

"When I first saw my face, it scared me. I used my hands to break the mirror."

My breath caught and my fingers flinched on his wrist as I looked down the study the scars again, my other hand moving to touch at his other wrist tentatively.

A voice took up a steady chant in my head.

_Don't want to see, don't want to see, talk about something else! I don't want to see!_

I scowled and closed my eyes, trying to keep myself from shaking. When I realized I'd stopped breathing, I attempted to draw in a breath of air, and when I did, my lips trembled and my breath wheezed shakily.

_Allah damn you, Ria. You're selfish and horrible and you don't deserve him when you think things like that. So stop it._

With slightly shaky hands, I brought one of his wrists to my lips, kissing along the scars softly, and looked up at him with a small smile as he palmed the side of my face. He attempted to send another smile my way, but it looked more like a grimace. I dropped his wrist and wrapped my arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

The tension I felt running through him informed me that he most certainly didn't want my pity. So I dropped the many questions budding in my mind, and settled for something slightly more mundane.

"What's your favorite opera?"

The smile that tilted his lips up told me he appreciated the gesture of a topic change, and he delved immediately into the finer workings of the world of musical art. I looked up at him as he spoke, noting with growing fondness the sudden reverence that seemed to light up eyes as he spoke. I tried to tell myself that I had changed topic merely for him. But I would be foolish not to recognize that I had done it for myself. Done it so we didn't have to talk about his mask, and his face, anymore. And I felt horrible for it.

_I'm just…I'm not ready for that yet. I don't know what he hides. I don't know how I'll react. I don't want to hurt him by reacting badly._

_Right, you're only concerned about him, sure. Of course it's not because you're simply scared to see the face of a monster –_

_He's not a monster!_

_Of course it's not because you're so vain that you don't want to see how truly ugly he is. _

I closed my eyes and tried to keep my frame from shaking.

_How can you even think that you might love him? How is that love? _

I wanted to shout that I didn't know, that I didn't understand any of this love business, and that I needed time to sort things out. But I was tired of arguing with my subconscious; I already felt like I was going insane.

Without realizing it, I curled closer to Erik, unable to completely stop the tremors that were still running through me. He must have noticed and thought I was cold; quite considerately, he pulled the blanket up around us, tucking it snuggly around me before curling his arm around my waist, his fingers splaying across my hip and idly stroking the silken material of my chemisette. My eyes drooped as a yawn overtook me, and I blinked up at him blearily. All the arguing I was doing with myself was really wearing me down.

"It looks like I've finally tired you with all this talk. You should sleep," he murmured as he sank lower onto the mattress, bringing me down with him so his head rested on a pillow and mine against his shoulder. I smiled despite the bitter monologue I'd just had with myself, and draped a leg over one of his as my fingers played across his chest.

"Will you sing me to sleep, Erik?"

"If you'd like." I could almost hear the smile in his voice; it made my arm instinctively tighten around his chest, and I sighed as I felt it swell beneath my palm as he took a breath. He turned towards me, bringing his other arm around my waist as he pulled me against him. The warmth was back in my chest again, tingling all over.

And then he was singing, softly and sweetly, his lips right beside my ear, his breath pleasant against my skin. I sighed again and sank against him, and felt as if I might drift away and follow the sound of his voice all the way to paradise.

"Paradise," I mumbled in a thick voice muffled against his chest. A heavy fog settled over my mind and dragged me into sleep, pulling me towards its empty abyss. But it turned out not to be so empty, for I took the voice with me to my dreams, and there I followed it into paradise.

**By the way, I love reviews, just letting you guys know. So if anyone is still reading this, review so that I'll know you're out there. Reviews motivate me, and motivation helps me get off my bum and write more stuff.**


End file.
